


Third Time's the Charm

by Alexis_Tenshi



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Q (James Bond), Blood and Torture, Eventual Smut, Fake Science, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Kidnapped Q (James Bond), M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Pining, Pining, Protective James Bond, Q Whump, Q is not a Damsel in Distress, Torture, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23803051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexis_Tenshi/pseuds/Alexis_Tenshi
Summary: Bond has been undercover for just over a year. It’s been the longest and hardest deep cover assignment he’s ever had for MI6, with barely any contact with the outside world for the last six months. Soon though, he might finally be close enough to accomplish his goal. He might be able to stop the organization’s plans and kill the leadership group, making England safe from a serious threat.But first, Bond has had to watch the terrorists kidnap, torture for information, and then kill two innocent people. Bond had been able to do nothing to stop it without blowing his cover, and putting millions more lives at risk.The terrorists soon brought in a third captive. He was young, thin, with thick wild hair, and wide scared eyes behind his glasses. He looked like nothing more than a harmless boffin, and Bond struggled to not let show how sick this all made him inside. This one won’t last long, Bond thought. At least he won’t have to suffer for long.Bond couldn’t have been more wrong.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 107
Kudos: 462





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not Brit-picked.

The first time that Q was kidnapped, Bond had no idea who Q was.

Bond had been out of contact with MI6 for six months, undercover for just over a year. Last time he’d spoken to anyone that knew who he really was, he’d told M that he’d likely have to go dark for quite awhile. She had approved, cutting off MI6 from any way to contact Bond. That wasn’t unusual for this sort of op, and for an agent of Bond’s experience and skills. Double-Os could get the job done on their own, or they didn’t deserve the _license to kill_ designation.

This terrorist organization had proven to be complex, slow to trust new members, and amassing resources capable of causing widespread destruction and death wherever they deemed fit; England a very likely target. They needed to be stopped and Bond was the one that’d been sent to do it. Bond needed to work his way up in the organization, find out who the leadership group was and what their plans were. Then kill them, and recover whatever weapons and resources he could, so they could never be a threat again.

Bond had posed as a new recruit and slowly made his way up the ranks, working towards accomplishing his mission. When he went dark, he went with the group to their base in the middle of a godforsaken desert. There was no telly, no newspaper, and only spotty satellite internet that Bond wasn’t permitted access to. Bond could have snuck online, of course. But the risk seemed too great for the limited reward, so far. So Bond had been effectively cut off from the outside world for six months.

That didn’t bother him, overly much. The world would keep turning without him watching it. No one besides MI6 was at home waiting for his return. He had his orders, he had his mission. It was a worthwhile mission, the threat was real. Bond had been thoroughly trained for this. So he kept his head down, kept his emotions in tight check, and did his work with all due caution and skill.

It was revolting work, posing as a bloody terrorist recruit. But Bond was good at it. It was all going as well as it could be. Bond could pull off being heartless, ruthless, violent, and vengeful with the best of them. He endured being surrounded by people that disgusted him, and pretended he was the same as them. He endured the training maneuvers. He endured the utter lack of real companionship. He endured having no one he could trust besides himself. He endured being entirely cut off from the country he loved and worked for.

That didn’t mean it was easy. It grated on him, of course it did. It chipped away at him, day by day. But this was the job he’d signed up for, and he was damn good at it. If he didn’t do it, it might not get done. And then his beloved England would be in flames, her people dying, and Bond would never forgive himself for not doing more. So Bond endured, and he made progress, day by day.

He was getting closer, he could feel it. He watched as once wary eyes turned trusting toward him. He listened as once tight lips loosened and he tucked away bits and pieces of information into his memory. He fought against impatience and pushing faster forward, especially as he felt himself getting nearer to his goal. But it wouldn’t do to rush, not this time. This organization was dangerous enough that it needed cut off completely at the root, no matter how tempting it was to kill it vine by vine.

So Bond endured, and he dreamed of the day this would be over. The day he could be back in England. The day M would give him one of her sparse looks, approving but not allowing herself to show much of it, after a mission done well. The day his fellow MI6 agents would nod in respect and grin at him in congratulations, as he walked past them in the halls.

The day he could drink a good martini, eat a meal that didn’t taste like sand, and put on fresh clothes that didn’t stink of old sweat. The day he could smile with less of a mask stamped on his face, and flirt with whatever sweet thing crossed his path. The day he could find someone with a soft touch and soft body, and lose himself inside that someone until he could almost forget all this. Even if just for a night.

Maybe he’d even take a few weeks leave like they were always trying to get him to.

Unfortunately, as Bond made progress, it got worse before there was any hope of it getting better. As the terrorists trusted him more, they allowed him access to more of their work. Their horrible, gut wrenching, disgusting work. Work that Bond had to show no sign of feeling anything besides approval towards. Work that included kidnapping, torture, and murder.

At least they hadn’t asked him to participate yet, only watch. But Bond knew it was just a matter of time. Just a matter of time until he had to do something he hated, that his very soul rebelled against, for the greater good of saving England and countless other lives. And Bond would do it, because that was who he was and what he’d signed up for. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hate every second of it, and hate himself a little bit more in the process.

Bond had survived torture before. He’d been the one dealing out torture before, too. He knew it and its horrors intimately. He’d survived every torture dealt to him. Everyone he’d tortured had deserved it. But he’d never just _watched_ it happen before. He’d never been just an observer before, rather than an active participant. He’d never before had to just stand by and watch as another person suffered brutally in front of him.

But that was exactly what he had to do there, with those terrorists. He had to watch while they tortured innocent people for information, until they broke and gave them what they wanted. That was his assigned role; rapt observer. He was meant to learn from this. It was also a test.

If he tried to stop it, he failed. If he showed concern for the victims, he failed. If he flinched away from the bloody brutality, he failed. Failure meant his mission was over. Failure meant these terrorists went on with their activities unchecked. Failure meant millions more lives were at risk. So Bond couldn’t allow himself to fail.

The first kidnapping victim that they made Bond watch their work on was a middle aged businessman. His business ran a shipping route that the terrorists wanted access to; to more easily move their weapons. That was all they told Bond about the man. They didn’t tell Bond the name of the company or the routes they wanted to use, to his hidden frustration. They told him just enough to let him know their intentions, and no more. Bond knew better than to pry and rise suspicions, at least not yet. So all Bond could do was watch.

Bond watched as they brought the man in, kicking and screaming behind a cloth gag. His eyes were open, clearly terrified, and wildly looking around at everyone present. Bond knew then that the man wouldn’t be allowed to live. These terrorists were too well trained for that. If they’d planned on ever letting him go, they wouldn’t have let him see their faces.

They took the man to an interrogation room, while Bond and a few others of the group were directed to the room next door. It was a professional set up. There was a large one-way mirror on the wall between the rooms, allowing Bond and the others to watch the interrogation unobserved.

There was no audio, however. Smart, Bond begrudgingly noted to himself. They could watch Bond’s reaction to the violence this way, without allowing him to know what was being said. He’d have no access to useful information, while they could gauge how affected he was by watching their torture methods. All under the guise of ‘teaching’ Bond interrogation techniques without the distraction of listening to what exactly was being said.

It was clever, in a repulsive way. And clearly a test that Bond had to pass if he was to get any closer to his goal. So Bond firmly put on a mask of cold indifference and went along with it. He didn’t blink out of turn, didn’t look away, didn’t flinch, didn’t wince. He allowed himself only an occasional small smirk, or slight nod, of feigned approval. Otherwise, he remained impassive and stared straight ahead as he watched an innocent man be brutally tortured.

The man lasted five hours. He clearly had no experience dealing with torture. And why should he? He was just a normal man. He told the terrorists everything they wanted to know. At least that was what Bond assumed, from their expressions. He still couldn’t hear anything being said.

Bond wished, not for the first time, that he could read lips. He’d always meant to learn. But somehow he’d never found the time. Spoken languages were easy enough for him to pick up, during down time on missions or between assignments. Bond spoke eight languages fluently, another four passably, and could muddle along in several others if the need arose. But lip reading was something else entirely. It took far more concentration to learn, and Bond had never managed to develop the skill.

After this, if he survived, Bond swore to try harder. He would enroll in MI6 courses on lip reading, no matter how embarrassing it was to be seen as a student again. He would apply himself to it like he’d never managed to do before. He never wanted to be in this situation again. He was so close to useful information, with just a wall and a mirror separating him from what he wanted to know. But without being able to read lips, it was all useless. He had no idea what any of them were saying.

So Bond learned nothing from the businessman’s interrogation besides how brutally efficient torturers the terrorists could be.

When the man stopped talking, the interrogators left the room. A guard that’d been stationed just outside the door came in, upholstered his weapon, and without hesitation shot the businessman between the eyes. It was a quick, clean kill. Small mercy, but better than none, Bond reflected.

The interrogators hadn’t brought guns in with them to the locked interview room. Another sign that they were professionals. Even if the likelihood of a captive getting hold of one of their guns was slim, it was still a needless risk.

So instead they’d had knives, pliers, hammers, and other sharp and heavy torture implements on hand. All they’d needed was the threat of them, though. They’d only used their hands on the captive, and that’d been enough. They were the type of torturers that started slow and moved up to more creative pain if needed. More effective that way than starting out breaking bones and cutting off body parts, just to find out your captor had a heart attack from the pain or bled to death more quickly than expected.

These terrorists knew what they were doing. Bond was comforted a little by that confirmation. They were zealots, focused on achieving a goal. They weren’t sadists, out to maximize pain for their enjoyment. At least not until their end game plan went into effect. Bond saw that as a good sign that he’d be able to endure watching these interrogations as long as it was necessary to.

Of course it meant nothing any longer to the man that they’d just tortured and killed, Bond thought as he watched the body being untied from the chair and removed from the room. Bond let himself wish he could have somehow helped the man, for just a moment. Then he forced all thoughts of him from his mind. He had to succeed at this mission. He couldn’t let anything else matter.

\---------------------------

The second kidnapping victim that they had Bond watch was a woman. They didn’t tell Bond who she was, or what they wanted from her. She was pretty and looked to be in her mid-thirties. They treated her in much the same way as the man, as Bond observed through the mirror.

Maybe he was a bit sexist, as he’d been told enough times in his life, but watching this one was more difficult. Bond loved both men and women. But only a certain type of man kicked in Bond’s protective instincts. Most every woman did.

Not that Bond thought women were weaker than men. That was complete and total bullshit. As evidenced by the fact that this woman lasted over twelve hours of brutal torture and told them nothing of what they wanted to force out of her. They left her for the night and started again the next day.

On the second day, after exhausting countless physical torture techniques, they showed her a phone. Bond had to squint to see, but on the phone played a video of a small boy. A small boy tied up and crying, looking no older than eight, with a gun to his head. The boy was someone that no doubt meant a great deal to the woman. After talking threateningly a few more minutes, the terrorists got everything they wanted out of her. She was summarily shot and killed a moment later.

Bond scowled at the other men in the observation room with him. It was in character for the role he was playing, so he let it happen.

“Why didn’t they do that in the first place?” Bond asked with irritation and impatience in his voice.

“Took awhile to realize she had someone worth threatening,” They explained to him with an unconcerned shrug. “She’s not a mother. No close family. The kid’s the son of a second cousin or something. But he was easy enough to grab, once we found him.”

Bond nodded, taking in the information with a thoughtful expression.

“So what’s cleanup like then? The boy dead?” Bond forced himself to ask in a careless curious tone.

“Nah, no need. He didn’t see anyone’s faces. And his father paid a handsome ransom. They won’t suspect it had anything to do with the woman until she doesn’t show up during the holidays, if even then. The family doesn’t talk often, they won’t make the connection.”

Inside, Bond was deeply relieved. At least there wasn’t a dead child on his conscience today. But on his face Bond showed nothing of that. He did nothing but nod again.

“Lucky she had someone like that, even without them being that close,” Bond commented, his tone casual. “She stood up well to the questioning, otherwise.”

“Nah, the boys were just getting started!” A loud laugh followed the statement. “They didn’t even bring in the wires and prongs yet! We try to hold off on that. Last time we used them, it took out all the power to the whole base for two days before we got it fixed.”

Electric shock torture, Bond mentally noted. Nasty stuff. He had some personal experience. He knew it was too much to hope for, but he still wished he wouldn’t get to witness that anytime soon.

\-------------------------------

The third captive they brought in was a boy that didn’t look over twenty. Bond _hoped_ he was twenty. He hoped he wasn’t about to watch them torture and kill a teenager. A terrorist was on each side of the boy, their hands on his upper arms, his wrists tied tightly behind him, and they dragged him along with little effort. He wasn’t struggling much; probably smart enough to have already realized it was useless.

Bond scanned him quickly from the cheap scuffed shoes on his feet, to plain black trousers, to a white button up shirt under a hideously green cardigan. He was thin, borderline unhealthily so, in Bond’s estimation. His hair was enough of a wild mess that Bond’s eyes were drawn to the thick brown strands before returning to the boy’s face. He was pale, with intelligent green eyes hidden behind a pair of thick glasses. His mouth was set in a dark, pinched line of fear.

The boy looked like nothing besides a cute, harmless, innocent boffin. He didn’t belong there. He didn’t deserve this. He was exactly the kind of man that kicked Bond’s protective instincts into overdrive. He was exactly the kind of person that Bond did what he did _for_. Bond was what he was, so people like this boy could live in safety and never need to know what threats were out there in the world.

That Bond was going to now have to watch this boy be tortured and killed filled him with more rage than he’d felt in months. He could barely contain it. He could barely maintain the mask he needed on his expression. Bond realized then, with a deep discomfort, just how far numbed to his position he’d become during the last year.

He’d been with these terrorists for too long. Far longer than any other undercover assignment he’d ever been on. It’d been too easy to play this role, for months. It’d been too easy to watch horrors and pretend it didn’t affect him. He needed out of there, before it really _didn’t_ affect him anymore. He needed out of there before he lost himself so entirely that he might never be able to piece himself back together.

Bond let himself have a few seconds of sweet fantasy. He imagined himself pulling out his gun and shooting the terrorists. He imagined killing every horrible person on that godforsaken base.

He imagined saving this boy, running away with him. He imagined taking him to bed, if he was amicable and verifiably old enough. He imagined basking in the boy’s gratitude and praise. He imagined reforming himself by rubbing against that boy’s soft body, burying himself inside him and finding himself again in the mutual pleasure.

And then he imagined leaving him, before Bond could inevitable hurt him. He imagined returning to M and telling her the mission failed. Admitting the heads of that terrorist organization were still out there. Still free to kidnap another boy. If not this one again, another like him. Admitting he didn’t know their exact plans and that England, possibly the world, was in grave danger.

Then Bond would have to admit he’d wasted the last year, gone through all this, let people die to maintain his cover, all for nothing in the end.

This boy could die when the terrorists staged their major attack, as surely as he would die when they were done with him there. It didn’t matter where he was from or where Bond could hide him. Bond would save him just to put him, and millions others, at further risk. He couldn’t do it.

Bond’s fantasy crashed into harsh reality. He knew he couldn’t save this boy, no matter how much he wanted to. He knew this boy was doomed to be another face in Bond’s nightmares, and he hadn’t even begun to watch him be tortured yet.

The rage continued to run through Bond, demanding he act, but Bond could do nothing besides push it down. The feeling of helplessness and _uselessness_ was so intense in response that Bond nearly gasped. He nearly lets his mask slip. But no one was watching him and no one noticed, as far as he could tell. Everyone was focused on the poor, doomed boy.

Bond forced himself to look at the boy, there now as he was, being dragged between two terrorists toward the interrogation cell. Bond forced himself to see the boy as he was, not how Bond wished he could rescue him.

The boy looked up then, and made eye contact with Bond. His expression shifted into a flash of surprise and what looked like recognition, and then it was gone just as quickly, replaced with fear and apprehension. It was fast enough that Bond wondered if he imagined it. Maybe it was just a trick of the light reflecting in the boy’s glasses.

Because Bond did not know this boy, and he couldn’t imagine how the boy could know him. Bond was very good with faces. In his line of work he _had_ to be. If Bond had met him before, even just in passing, Bond would remember. He wouldn’t be able to forget a face as strikingly alluring as this one.

Bond stepped forward under the pretense of helping open the heavy door to the interrogation room. He hoped to catch the boy’s attention again, and he did. The boy looked straight at him again, making brief eye contact, but there was no recognition this time. His expression didn’t change in the slightest. Bond watched closely to be certain. But all he saw in the boy’s eyes was fear and dread.

The door closed and locked with a loud clank. Bond followed the others into the next room to watch.

He should stay quiet, Bond knew. He was taking a risk saying anything at all. But he had to be sure. He couldn’t get that flash of recognition on the boy’s face out of his mind.

“Who is he? He looks like a student! He can’t know anything of value!” Bond scoffed.

“Why do you ask?” was the response. “You’ve never asked about our interview subjects before. What, is this boy your type? You hoping for some fun before we kill him? You know we don’t have time for that! Sex with prisoners is strictly forbidden, you know that!”

“Maybe he is my type,” Bond admitted with a careless shrug. “But you’re right; it’d be a waste of time anyway. Even if I was allowed, it’d be no fun fucking a half unconscious bloody lump, like he’s going to be by the time they’re done with him.

The men beside him snickered in response. Bond’s stomach turned in disgust, at both them and himself.

Bond wanted to press more. He wanted to demand answers. But he couldn’t. They were already suspicious. His vulgarity would only distract them so much.

Bond watched through the mirror as the boy was roughly shoved into the metal chair in the middle of the interrogation room. The chair was bolted solidly to the floor, Bond knew. They took the boy’s tied hands and further tied them to the chair. They used good solid rope, though the knots weren’t as tight and secure as they could be. Bond could get out of them, easily. But the boy was clearly no match for them. Which was probably why they didn’t take more care tying him.

They took off the boy’s glasses and set them down on a nearby table, just out of reach. They then added several other items to the table; water bottles, protein bars, and a laptop computer. All were on clear display to show the captive what they couldn’t have, but would desperately want. All to make their suffering worse, and urge to give in greater. It was the interrogators’ normal procedure.

Bond had never seen the computer before, and suspected it belonged to the boy. Further confirmation he was a boffin. They plugged the computer in, opened it, and even connected to the base’s network. But a password prompt stopped them from going any further. Had the terrorists tried to get past it and failed already? Was that what they planned to torture him for, access to his computer?

They said something to the boy, gesturing to the computer, seeming to confirm Bond’s suspicions. The boy shook his head, said what Bond can only assume was _no_ , and then resolutely closed his lips tightly.

They backhanded him across his face, hard enough to painfully snap his head to one side. The boy slowly moved his head back to face them, a bright red mark now standing out strikingly against the pale skin of his cheek. His eyes looked resolute, but it was easy to see the fear and pain barely hidden behind that.

Bond forced himself to not respond. He smoothed his facial expression into his cold mask, showing nothing. But his insides were tearing up with rage, getting worse every moment he did nothing. But he could _do_ nothing, no matter how much he despised every second of inactivity.

At least this shouldn’t last long, Bond thought. The way the boy’s head snapped to the side, it looked like his neck almost broke. The boy was clearly fragile, terrified, and completely unprepared for this. It wouldn’t be long before they broke him, got what they wanted, and ended his suffering. A few hours, maybe, at the most, and then this would be over.

Later, Bond would wish he’d been right with that assessment. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

As time dragged on, the boy’s condition got worse and worse. The interrogators took turns hitting him, though they hadn’t yet moved on to using anything besides their fists. His body was a mass of bruises. But his lips remained resolutely shut. He’d barely said a handful of words since the interrogation began. Bond was filled with a mixture of respect and growing dread.

Bond watched as one of the terrorists hit the boy in the face, harder than they had before. Hard enough that the boy’s nose broke and a sent a splash of blood across the mirror, marking the window’s surface in bright red, right in front of Bond’s face. Bond didn’t flinch, but it was a very, very close thing.

Bond watched as the boy’s head rose to face his captors, once again. Blood was smeared on his cheeks and dripped down to cover his mouth and chin. But his lips stayed resolutely closed.

And then Bond saw his eyes and didn’t know how he’d missed it so completely before. Behind the fear was pure _steel_. This boy was afraid, yes, but he was _not_ timid or weak. Not in the _slightest._

This was going to be a long, long, tortuous ordeal, Bond realized with horrifying dread. And Bond would have to watch every second of it and not react.

Bond began to wonder which one of them would break first; the boy or _Bond_.

**_End note:_ **

I love when Bond can read lips and I think it makes sense that he could. But this fic only works this way if he can’t, so that’s how it goes.

This is my first foray into writing for this fandom and I hope it’s enjoyed! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

The boy endured being beaten, on and off, for twelve hours. He gave his captors nothing. Bond held in his rage, no matter how much it sickened and disgusted him, and he watched the boy suffer for twelve hours.

After the twelve hour mark, the interrogators deemed it time for everyone to sleep. That meant them, and Bond, and everyone at the base besides the night guards. The boy remained tied to the chair, but he was otherwise to be left alone until the next morning, Bond was informed. It was the truth, Bond was fairly certain. If they planned to visit further terrors on him during the night, they’d likely wake Bond up to witness it.

Bond ate food that tasted like ash. He was entirely too aware that the boy hadn’t eaten or drank anything in at least twelve hours, quite possibly longer. Bond had no idea where they’d kidnapped the boy from or how he’d been treated on the journey to the base. But the base wasn’t close to any cities, so it had to have been at least an additional few hours from when he was kidnapped to when they got there. Likely much longer than that, though. The base was far away from civilization on purpose.

Bond listened to the terrorists around him with as much attention as he could manage. He responded appropriately to keep his cover. The mission was the most important thing, the only important thing, Bond kept telling himself.

No one gave any more details about the boy. Bond still had no idea who he was or what exactly they wanted from him.

Bond tried to sleep. He knew he’d need his strength to get through however long this lasted, with his mask tightly over his emotions. He managed a few hours. He didn’t dream, which was the only thing he was thankful for in what felt like a very, very long time.

\------------------------------

After a simple breakfast, Bond and the other observers were directed back into the same room as the proceeding day. Bond watched as the boy was woken up by a slap across his face. He was given a few gulps of water and a small piece of a protein bar, about ¼ of the bar. He took the nourishment. Bond was relieved he didn’t refuse. Then the interrogators asked him a question and he firmly closed his mouth, saying nothing.

The terrorists smiled, but Bond saw they were becoming irritated. They were beginning to realize this wasn’t going to be as easy as they’d first thought. They were beginning to notice the steel in the boy’s eyes, and were considering how to crack it. Bond held a mug of coffee, sipping it occasionally, and wondered if he could crack the ceramic if he gripped it tightly enough.

The day started with them cutting off the boy’s cardigan and shirt. He was fitter than Bond had imagined. Lean muscles rippled over a slight frame. His body wasn’t weak, no matter how well his layers of clothes had covered it. He wasn’t underfed, as Bond had suspected before. At least not until now, being denied food by these bastards.

He had a gorgeous body, from what Bond could see once his shirt was entirely torn off. Bond wanted to lick his muscles, kiss across his chest and nuzzle against his abs. Instead, Bond spent the day watching the interrogators cut into the boy’s exposed flesh. They were careful to keep the cuts shallow enough to not need stitches, so the boy wouldn’t bleed out. But otherwise they were merciless.

Bond mentally distanced himself from the display as much as he could while still maintaining his cover. He refused to let himself think about how the boy had had next to nothing to eat or drink. He forced himself to not count the number of slices across the boy’s skin. He focused his gaze on the far wall of the interrogation cell. He didn’t let himself stare at the pain on the boy’s face. He didn’t let himself focus on how tightly the boy’s lips remained closed, through it all.

By evening the boy’s chest, stomach, and back were covered in countless cuts. There was so much blood running down his body that it was impossible to tell where he’d been cut and where he was just covered in red blood from his wounds.

He had told them nothing. Bond knew he’d whimpered, gasped, and groaned. But he didn’t think the boy had flat out screamed yet. The wall between them wasn’t that thick, Bond would have heard it. Bond’s mind was again filled with a mixture of respect and dread in response to how the boy was handling this.

The terrorists were getting angry. Despite his attempts to not let the sight affect him, Bond was fighting enough nausea that he had to concentrate on not throwing up. And still the boy said nothing.

The day ended with one of the interrogators picking up a hammer, swinging it up high, and bringing it down hard against the boy’s right knee. Bond felt himself flinch as he watched the steel hammer connect with the vulnerable kneecap. Bond heard the boy’s voice for the first time, as he screamed loudly enough to pierce through the walls, clearly unable to hold it in any longer. Bond struggled to get his expression under control as he listened to that scream. But if anyone noticed, they gave no sign. They were too busy watching the boy suffer.

They gave the boy a few moments. He looked like he was whimpering. But once his scream had died out, Bond could no longer hear him. The boy’s eyes were closed and his head was lowered away from his tormentors. His thick hair hung over his eyes, but Bond could still see tears escaping his control. The tears ran down his face, leaving clear tracks in the dried blood on his cheeks. It was near impossible to not cry from that much pain, Bond knew. It was amazing these were the first tears the boy had shed.

Then the interrogators started talking to him again, no doubt demanding he answer their questions. They waved the hammer around, clearly threatening to hit him again. The boy didn’t respond for several moments. His slim body was shaking, taking in deep breaths. They kept repeating the questions, from what Bond could tell from their mannerisms. They took a step toward him, and the boy finally looked up.

Bond sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. The boy’s lips were tightly closed. His eyes had dried. In those eyes there was pain, an incredible amount of pain, and fear. But behind that, the steel stood solid.

The terrorists saw it, too. The interrogators left the boy in disgust. Bond wished he could see that as a relief. But all he saw was how much worse it was going to get for the boy the next day.

Bond made his way to his own room, and then puked what little he had in his stomach up into the toilet. He made himself clean up. He made himself join the others for dinner. If they suspected anything of him, they gave no sign. His mask was as firmly in place over his emotions as it could be. But it was cracking. Bond knew it was.

The night followed much the same as the one before it.

\--------------------------------------

The next morning, things changed. During breakfast, Bond was approached by one of the terrorists doing the interrogations. Bond gathered himself mentally; making sure his mask was as securely in place as he could make it.

“So, we have heard you like the boy.”

“Like?” Bond responded with a calm raised eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say _like_. I’d say I’d fuck him if I met him on the street and my cock was hungry for a hole to sink into.”

The bastards sitting around him at the table chuckled in appreciation of the words. Bond was going to be sick again. But this was his persona. He had to stick to it, or all this would be for nothing. He had to be crass, vulgar, and show he did not give a shit about the boy.

“But he’s nothing special,” Bond continued. “It’s been made clear to me that sex doesn’t have a place during our training, or during the interviews, and I understand that. Our work is too important for that kind of distraction.”

“Sex does not have a place here, you are correct,” the terrorist confirmed with all the conviction of a zealot. “It is too soft, too likely to cause _feelings_ and desires that get in the way of the work.

“However, it is clear to us that the usual techniques are not working on this interview subject. We have more things we can try, harsher things, of course. But there is some concern, as he is such a weak little thing, that he would not survive them long enough to talk.”

Bond no longer saw anything about the boy as being weak, no matter how slight his frame was. But Bond also knew better than to argue with that. If he could do anything to spare the boy pain, without blowing his cover, he would. So he said nothing and just maintained a calm expression, showing he was listening.

“While sex is off the table here, there may be something to be said for a softer hand. You have heard of the technique of _good cop, bad cop_?” The terrorist asked.

“Of course. Oldest play in the book,” Bond answered.

He received a sly grin in response. “We are thinking you could play the good cop, or rather good _interviewer_. Clean him up; make sure he isn’t going to bleed to death, or expire from infected cuts. Give him a little food. Say a few kind words to him. Give him some hope. Make him believe he could live through this; that he could return to his normal life after this. Ask him to give you the computer codes we want. He’ll know which ones. Maybe he’ll tell you. Or maybe he’ll be more inclined to tell us next time we cause him pain. If he thinks you’ll be back to treat his wounds afterward, if he thinks you might let him go afterward, he may be more cooperative.”

Bond’s mind raced. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to give this poor boy hope, knowing it was completely false. He didn’t want to see those injuries up close and know the full damage without any doubt. He didn’t want to hear the boy’s pain filled whimpers. He didn’t want to see those green eyes up close. He didn’t want to care more about this boy than he already did. He couldn’t _afford_ to.

But he couldn’t say _no_ , either. This was a test, Bond knew. It was a test to see if Bond could do it. If Bond could get the information they wanted. Or if Bond would get attached, try to help the captive, or even ask for mercy for the boy. Bond wasn’t sure if this was better, or worse, than them telling him he had to torture the prisoner.

The thought of striking this boy, of causing him more pain made Bond sick. But if he’d been tasked with that, he could have _accidentally_ put the boy out of his misery. Especially as a supposed novice torturer, it was very easy for a knife to slip, or a fist to hit hard enough to break a neck. If he killed this boy, Bond would be haunted by it forever. But at least the boy wouldn’t suffer for a second longer than necessary.

But Bond wasn’t being given that option. Bond had precious few options at all. He could go along with what he was told to do, or he could drop his cover and try to escape with the boy. One choice saved one life, maybe, if they were lucky. The other could save millions. Bond knew the correct choice, morally. He knew the choice that MI6 had trained him for. He knew the choice that M would want him to make. But he didn’t know if he could go through with it, once he got closer to this boy.

But there was no better option. So Bond agreed.

“I need to know more about him, to do this,” Bond said after agreeing. “Who is he? What does he have that we want?”

“His name is Theodore Fortnum. He is a computer tech. He works for a… _organization_ …that does many things, including manufacture weapons. This organization has certain information we require. He has the codes we need to access it. You don’t need to know any more than that.”

Bond frowned and didn’t hold back showing his frustration in his expression. They still trusted him so little that they wouldn’t even tell him the name of the organization or any more details than that? That was a grim prospect. Bond had thought he’d gotten further in gaining their trust.

“Don’t look so upset, my friend! When this is over, we will finally have everything we need to begin our final preparations for our glorious strike! Our day of divine reckoning will be at hand! Millions will feel the wrath of our flames and we will purge the earth of their filth! Once we have this information from Theodore, we will dispose of him and leave this place. We will join our illustrious leaders and you will have earned your place with us.”

Bond took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. His mission goal was close and clear. He was doing this then. No matter how much it hurt.

\-----------------------------------------

The boy was unconscious when Bond entered the interrogation room. Bond had been sent in alone, to better give the impression he was the _good_ one among the captors and could be trusted. There was a guard on the other side of the locked door, and four other terrorists watched the room through the one-way mirror. There was no privacy, but the illusion of some.

The boy moaned and shifted in his sleep, clearly in pain from all his injuries and from being tied to the chair for days. He was covered in dried blood, and other dried fluids that were not blood.

He smelled, Bond noted as he got closer. But that was the easiest part of the state he was in to ignore. Bond didn’t care how he smelled. He cared how much pain the boy was in. He cared that he couldn’t save him. He cared that the boy was going to die, and there was nothing Bond could let himself do to stop that.

Bond should perhaps have wrinkled his nose in disgust. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. A mask of indifference would have to be enough. The only disgust Bond felt was toward the terrorists that’d done this to an innocent boy.

The boy was still shirtless, but his trousers and shoes had never been removed. His tormenters had focused on the upper half of his body, until the hammer strike to his knee. His knee looked swollen, even with the trouser leg still covering it. Bond hoped the knee cap hadn’t been shattered. If it was just dislocated or sprained, the boy might be able to walk normally again, eventually. Bond refused to think about how the boy was unlikely to live long enough to care.

_Theodore_ , Bond reminded himself. The boy’s name was Theodore Fortnum. The name meant nothing to Bond. When he’d first heard it, he’d wracked his brain for any memory of the name. But he’d found none. That flash of recognition on the boy’s…on _Theodore’s_ face must have been a trick of the light or Bond’s imagination. Regardless, Bond would do him the dignity of remembering his name from that point onward.

Bond set down the medical supplies they’d given him and got to work on Theodore’s battered body. He’d been given a bucket with warm water and a rag, as well, to clean off the blood. Bond used those first, gently wiping away as much of the blood as he could. He crouched down in front of the captive. He started on Theodore’s stomach and moved up toward his head slowly, thinking he might be able to sleep through it until Bond reached his face. Bond was in no hurry to wake him up. Before long the water in the bucket had turned dark pink, as had the rag, and the scent of copper filled the air thanks to the wet stale blood.

None of the numerous cuts looked infected, as far as Bond could tell. They did, however, look painful. Many would doubtlessly scar, especially after going untended for so long. Bond refused to think about how Theodore was unlikely to live long enough to care about scars.

Bond heard Theodore wake up, but he gave no sign of noticing. He continued to clean his body as best he could with the now bloody rag and water. Bond wasn’t going to ask for clean water. He couldn’t show the terrorists he cared even that much. He had to let them think he was doing this begrudgingly. But he could pretend to be intent enough on the task to not notice that Theodore was awake. He could give him a few moments of peace without a captor’s eyes on his face.

When Bond did look up, after a few minutes, Theodore was staring down at him. Bond inhaled sharply at the intensity of that gaze. There was pain in those deep green eyes, and fear, as expected. There was that steel strength showing through, as Bond had come to anticipate. But there was also more _sadness_ in his eyes than Bond had noticed when Theodore was looking at the terrorists.

Bond just must not have been able to see it, from the distance he’d been watching, he rationalized. Or it was new, because Theodore was exhausted and losing hope. It had nothing to do with _Bond_. How could it? Bond was just another captor, another tormentor, to Theodore. He was someone else that was going to cause Theodore nothing but pain, in the end, even if Bond could momentarily give him some respite from his torture.

Theodore didn’t say anything, so Bond didn’t either. Bond went back to cleaning Theodore’s body, soon reaching his face. Bond wiped off as much of the blood as he could. He noted they hadn’t sliced his face, at least. No scars could form from cuts there. But his lip was split, his nose was broken, his cheeks were swollen, and he hissed and winced in pain as Bond tried to clean his face.

Bond wanted to say something to comfort him, but what could he say? He knew he had to make a better effort at this. He knew he needed to start lying. He needed to start convincing Theodore that there was hope, that he could be an ally, that Theodore could live through this. But the words wouldn’t come. The prospect of telling those lies made Bond’s tongue feel heavy and immobile in his mouth. So Bond let them keep their silence while he continued to clean Theodore’s injuries.

Soon, Bond left the rag in the bucket and moved on to disinfectant and gauze. He cleaned every cut he could find, putting plasters over the worst few. Theodore let out a small whimper of pain every so often, but otherwise remained silent. He was watching Bond, and Bond felt his eyes on him. But Bond didn’t react.

Moving to Theodore’s back, Bond’s eyes wandered to his tied wrists for the first time. A shocked jolt shot through Bond at how loose the ropes were. Theodore had been trying to free himself. He had nearly succeeded, too. Anyone else might not have noticed, but Bond saw it for what it was immediately.

Bond forced himself not to focus on the ropes, not to look at the raw wrists for a second longer. Bond couldn’t forget they were being watched. Bond wouldn’t let the captors know what Theodore had done. Bond continued to clean Theodore’s back like nothing had changed.

A second later, Bond wondered why it even mattered. Even if Theodore got free of the ropes, there was no way he could escape. If Bond was there, Bond would have to stop him. If it was anyone else, they would stop him even more harshly. Even if Theodore got himself untied when no one else was in the room, the door was locked and guards were always just outside. But Bond still couldn’t bring himself to retie those thin wrists, or call attention to the ropes.

Bond pushed it from his mind as he finished tending to Theodore’s back. Bond pushed aside his own feelings of uselessness and frustration, as well. He focused on the simple task of patching Theodore up, no matter what would come later.

Bond moved back to the front of Theodore, and eyed the captive’s injured knee.

“I need to tend to your knee,” Bond stated flatly. “The easiest way to do that will be to cut your trouser leg off to just above your knee. If you try to kick me while I work, it will hurt you more than me, and not help anything at all. Understood?”

Bond looked back up at Theodore to find the boy watching him intently. Theodore took a deep breath and nodded. The steel in those green eyes intensified. Bond refused to let himself think of how _amazing_ Theodore must be when he wasn’t injured and terrified. He refused to consider how much Theodore could accomplish in his life, if he didn’t die in the next few days. Bond focused on the task in front of him only.

Bond did as he’d said he would, taking the large scissors and cutting up the trouser leg, and then cut across to remove the bottom half entirely. Theodore’s knee was red and swollen. Bond forced himself not to react to the sight. He couldn’t tell if the knee cap was shattered or not. He refused to try and move Theodore’s leg enough to find out. Bond got out long strips of gauze and wrapped the knee tightly. Bond had been given one cold pack only. He cracked it now, to activate it, and set it on top of Theodore’s knee to help the swelling. There was nothing else Bond could do.

Bond stood up. Theodore looked up at him and their eyes met for several moments. Bond wished he could say anything that was the truth. Bond wished he could say anything that would _matter_ , in the end. But he had nothing _real_ to offer him. Nothing that would last. He had to speak anyway.

“Theodore, right?” Bond asked.

The captive nodded. Nothing more. He watched Bond closely, but his expression was blank.

“That’s a bit of a mouthful.” Bond tired to smirk, but he gave up before it’d reached his lips. “Do you go by ‘Theo’?”

The boy shook his head. His hair flopped around with the movement. It looked soft. But Bond noted the clumps of dried blood stuck in it.

“Well _Theodore_ it is then.” Bond granted.

Bond continued, his eyes still drawn to the boy’s hair, “Blood doesn’t wash out well once it’s been allowed to dry for so long. You might have to get your hair cut after…when this is all…”

Bond choked on the words and mentally cursed himself for his inability to smoothly lie at this crucial time. But he couldn’t manage to tell this boy that there was going to be an _after_ this. They both knew better.

Theodore said nothing. His eyes continued to bore into Bond.

“I’m James,” Bond offered. “And while I know you’ll find this hard to believe, I don’t agree with how harshly they’re treating you.”

There, that was easier. That was something like the truth.

“Can I have some water, then?” Theodore croaked out the first words he’d said to Bond. His lips were so dry they cracked and bleed more for his effort.

Bond let himself wince. He should have given the boy water already. But he’d been so preoccupied with Theodore’s injuries, and his own mental struggles, that he hadn’t thought of it. Bond absently noted Theodore spoke with a British accent. He tried to not let that endear the boy to him more; knowing he was Bond’s countryman.

Bond got a full water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and brought it over to Theodore. He lifted it to the captive’s parched lips, tilted it up, and let him drink the entire bottle.

Bond was careful to not pour too much, too quickly, and make the boy choke. Some water escaped his lips and ran down his throat. Bond stared as his Adam’s apple bobbed in time with his swallows. Theodore closed his eyes, his expression almost blissful as he finally quenched his thirst.

This should not have been even remotely erotic, under the circumstances. But Bond still felt his stomach clench with sudden arousal at the sight. It had been far, far too long since Bond had gotten laid, he decided. And Theodore was far too enticing, even in this sorry state.

The water bottle was empty, so Bond set it back on the table. He considered offering Theodore another one. There were half a dozen full water bottles on the table. But his stomach had been empty long enough that too much at once might make him sick.

Bond picked up a protein bar instead. Bond broke the bar into small pieces, thinking it would be easier to digest that way. He didn’t let himself consider how much that would mean getting his fingers into Theodore’s mouth, as he fed him each piece by hand. Bond’s resolve was enough that he didn’t get more aroused by hand feeding Theodore, but it was a close thing. Even dry and bloody, Theodore’s lips and tongue looked positively enticing taking each chocolate covered bit from Bond’s fingers. When he was finished eating, Bond gave him more water, but stopped before the bottle was half emptied.

Bond stepped back and just looked at the boy. Theodore looked back. Those green eyes were still in pain, but at least the fear had lessened for now. Bond wished he could keep the fear out of those beautiful eyes forever, but he knew that wasn’t possible.

Bond couldn’t guess what Theodore saw in Bond’s own eyes. Probably a cold blooded killer. That was what Bond was, after all. His eyes likely reflected that clearly, especially right then.

Bond knew he couldn’t just stand there like this forever, looking into those deep green eyes, as much as he wanted to. They were still doubtlessly being watched. The interrogators wouldn’t hesitate to resume their torture of Theodore if they decided Bond was taking too long, or not putting enough effort into this. Bond knew he had to find the sweet, fake words to put Theodore more at ease. But his mind refused to draw anything besides a blank.

In the end, Theodore fixed it himself, shocking Bond utterly with his words.

“If I’m going to die, I’m glad I got this first. And I’m glad it was _you_.” Theodore’s words were whispered. They were full of pain, fear, and such _longing_ that it took Bond’s breath away.

And then Theodore smiled at him. _Smiled_ at Bond! A real, _genuine_ smile! It was small, and full of pain, and resignation, but held a sweet, entirely unfathomable edge of _fondness_ in it. Bond froze in complete shock and confusion. Bond’s heart suddenly started racing and his stomach ached.

It took absolutely everything Bond had to not give into that smile. Every ounce of Bond’s tight self restraint, every bit of his training, and every piece of knowledge of the horror this group would bring if he didn’t take them down. It took everything Bond had to not say _screw the mission_ and escape with Theodore right then.

The boy flinched slightly, as if he’d admitted something he shouldn’t. As if that gave something away he hadn’t intended to. Bond couldn’t begin to fathom what that might be, though. The words had been confusing; they revealed nothing that Bond could parse out. It was the tone, and the smile, that had Bond dizzy.

“I mean, it’s nice to see a friendly face, near the end. Even if it _is_ entirely fake. And you are quite attractive.”

That wasn’t a lie, Bond could tell. Was that all that the boy had been worried about admitting? Revealing he was gay? Bond supposed that could be enough. Being gay somewhere like this could mean a guarantee of humiliation and possibly rape being added to the torture. Of course Bond wasn’t about to use those techniques, but there was no way for Theodore to know that.

It had been a long time since anyone had called Bond attractive. It had been a long time since Bond had used his charm and looks to pry out secrets from someone. He was a master at it, of course. But there had been no call for it on this mission. Until now, when he suddenly couldn’t manage to conjure up one convincing lie, he was so overwrought with guilt.

But Theodore being the one to start it changed _everything_ , for Bond. It gave him the strength to do what he needed to do. Theodore wanted a sweet lie, before the inevitable end. He deserved that much. Bond could give him that.

It still made Bond sick inside, in a way, to do this. But it would be doing the boy a favor, in the end. And they both seemed to know it. So it should be simple enough to accomplish, Bond reflected.

Let Theodore fall victim to Bond’s honeypot techniques, rather than the horrific painful torture the terrorists were sure to move on to next. Get Theodore to give Bond the information they needed. Then there wouldn’t be a reason for the boy to suffer any longer. This hell could be over for him. Bond’s soul would be damned to an even deeper pit of hell for it, but so what? Bond had no illusions about himself. He’d been damned before for less worthy causes. If he could give Theodore some small, sweet illusion of hope and a quick end to his suffering, then Bond felt it was his duty to try.

With a new resolve, Bond refocused himself to his task. His mind and body listened and obeyed, this time. Bond almost felt like himself, for a moment. He’d always been a liar, a seducer, a secret stealer. He could do this for Theodore, and do it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, the worst of the physical torture is over, just in case it helps anyone to hear that. 
> 
> I decided on Theodore Fortnum, or ‘Teddy’ to his friends, for Q’s name. It’s inspired by Ben Whishaw voicing Paddington Bear. Peggy Fortnum was the original illustrator for the Paddington books.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond spent a few more seconds eyeing Theodore, deciding how best to proceed. Theodore again helped Bond’s decision. The boy shifted in his seat, trying to roll his shoulders and move his bound arms.

“Your arms must be practically numb,” Bond commented. “Let me help with that.”

Bond went back behind Theodore and began massaging the boy’s shoulders. Bond dug his fingers lightly against the slim shoulders, as Theodore inhaled sharply at the skin on skin contact. Bond felt the tension in Theodore’s muscles and he wasn’t foolish enough to think a simple massage could help that much. But it was something, at least. Some small bit of comfort he could offer the boy. Before Bond inevitably had to betray him.

Bond didn’t press as hard as he would have liked, to really help the tension, mindful of the boy’s injuries. Even his arms were dotted in cuts. But Bond did what he could, and Theodore began to relax minutely. Bond worked his fingers down one arm, then the other, pressing lightly into the restrained limbs.

Bond noted again how lose the rope tying Theodore’s wrists to the chair had become. He ignored it, again. He stood at an angle that would block sight of the rope from the observation room. He was tempted to help loosen the rope, discreetly. But what good would that do, in the end? The boy still couldn’t escape. So Bond ignored Theodore’s hands entirely, stopping the massage once he reached his wrists.

Bond moved back to the front of the boy, again looking into Theodore’s eyes. Theodore just watched him, his expression giving nothing away. Bond was again drawn to the boy’s hair.

“It’s just a shame, is what I was saying before, to cut your hair.” Bond switched back to the past topic with a smooth ease born from attending countless social functions and seducing dozens of marks. “It’s lovely hair, and the style suits you well, Theodore.”

Theodore’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropped open a little bit. Then he seemed to accept it, and his face relaxed another fraction. A small rueful smile returned to his lips. There was still pain in his expression, and some fear. But he seemed ready to go where Bond led him.

So Bond reached out a hand toward Theodore’s hair, and asked, “May I?”

Theodore nodded and Bond put both of his hands on the boy’s head. He just let them rest there for a moment, so Theodore could feel the comforting weight of them. Then he started brushing his fingers gently through Theodore’s hair. It felt just as luxurious as Bond had imagined it would. He wondered if Theodore used a certain shampoo, or if he was naturally like this.

“Mhmm….thick and long, just lovely, Theodore,” Bond purred.

“That’s what _he_ said,” Theodore whispered.

Bond looked down at Theodore’s eyes just in time to watch Theodore glance at Bond’s crotch. Bond blinked in disbelief. Theodore giggled, just for a second, then winced and stopped. But Bond had heard it unmistakably.

Theodore had just jokingly flirted with him, using a sex pun while he was tied, bloody, beaten, and facing death. Christ, this boy must be an absolute snarky _delight_ normally! Bond’s heart ached for a moment, knowing that he would never get to quip back and forth with Theodore properly, when they were both at their best.

Bond continued to run his fingers through Theodore’s hair, enjoying the simple intimacy of the touch. He picked at the dried blood stuck to some clumped together strands. He wished he had a comb to help combat the bloody tangles. Hell, he wished he could get Theodore in a hot shower and wash his hair for him. None of that was to be, Bond knew.

Bond heard a small gasp and listened to Theodore’s breathing rate increase. He looked down and saw the boy was crying and shaking slightly. He was nearly entirely silent about it, and Bond chose to not comment on it. Bond continued to pet Theodore’s hair until he felt the boy still.

“This is nice,” Bond commented, casually, but entirely sincerely. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like this.”

“It’s been a long time for me, too,” Theodore echoed, his voice still barely above a whisper.

Bond let them both have a few more minutes, then with much reluctance he stilled his hands in Theodore’s hair. Bond moved his hands slightly lower to gently frame Theodore’s face, carefully avoiding the many bruises. Bond ran his thumbs gently along Theodore’s cheekbones. Bond lightly kissed Theodore’s forehead. Bond kept his hands framing Theodore’s face, and pulled back enough to look the boy in the eyes.

“Theodore, I am _so_ sorry this is happening to you. I am _so_ sorry I can’t save you from this. I would if I could, I _swear_.” Bond put all of his genuine sincerity behind those words.

“I believe you,” Theodore responded honestly, to Bond’s shock. “And I’m sorry, too. Sorry we couldn’t meet under different circumstances.”

Bond smiled at Theodore, as gently as he could. Theodore smiled back, though his face was entirely full of sadness and regret now.

“You should…” Bond began, before Theodore cut him off.

“Would you kiss me, please? On the lips? Just once?”

Bond’s heart clenched painfully at the request. There was absolutely no way he could refuse him. Not that he wanted to.

“Of _course_ , Theodore. It would be my absolute _pleasure_ to kiss you properly.”

And so Bond did. He started lightly, gently, mindful of Theodore’s split and bloody lips. Just a few light pecks. But as soon as their lips connected for more than a moment, Theodore took over the kiss aggressively. He bent up in the chair he was tied to, craning his neck to press his lips more forcefully against Bond’s. Bond could do no less than respond in kind. He nibbled at Theodore’s lips, not caring that he was splitting them open more and drawing blood. He shoved his tongue into Theodore’s mouth, licking against Theodore’s still slightly dry tongue. Bond tasted more blood, but he also tasted _Theodore_. Theodore tasted faintly like honey, and he stung like bees when he bit his teeth down hard into Bond’s lips, drawing Bond’s blood into their mouths to mix with Theodore’s.

Bond spared a brief second to wonder if this was a misguided attempt to bite attack him. But he quickly discarded the idea as Theodore’s teeth released his lips and continued kissing him. This was just Theodore giving this kiss all he had, knowing it might well be his last.

Bond hadn’t bothered to shave in a few days, and Theodore hadn’t been in any condition to either. The stubble on both their chins rubbed together, burning as they continued to kiss, trying a different angle. Neither of them seemed inclined to stop. Bond’s nose bumped Theodore’s broken one, and the boy gasped in pain, opening his mouth wider. Bond swallowed the sound and pushed his tongue further down Theodore’s throat.

Bond got his hands back into Theodore’s hair and tugged hard, forcing the boy’s head back and moving to kiss down his exposed neck. Theodore’s throat was one of the few expanses of skin that no blade had touched. It was far too easy to nick an artery there to risk it.

Bond didn’t take his time. He didn’t build up to it. He bit down hard on a small part of Theodore’s neck, taking it between his teeth and tugging. He did it again and again, leaving bright red marks on every section of exposed pale skin that he could get his teeth into.

Theodore wouldn’t die with just torture marks on him, Bond had decided in that moment. Bond would leave as many marks of lust and desire on Theodore as he could before it was too late. Theodore deserved passion and pleasure, not pain. Bond just wished he could do more to show that then just this.

Eventually, Bond moved back up to Theodore’s lips and they kissed more. For long, wonderful moments, the world seemed to cease to exist outside of the two of them. But Bond knew it had to end. He pulled back from Theodore with more regret than he’d thought possible. Bond kept his hands around Theodore’s face, framing it. He looked straight into Theodore’s eyes.

With all the care he felt for this doomed boy, and all the conviction Bond had, he spoke, “Give me the computer codes, Theodore. Just _tell_ me, and it will all be over. _No one_ will ever hurt you again, I promise. You can _trust_ me. Just tell me, _please_.”

Bond continued to stare into those eyes. He watched as they filled with anguish and sorrow. He watched Theodore’s beautiful face as it broke. Theodore’s freshly kissed and bloody lips trembled. Theodore let out a little whimper and his entire body shuddered. He closed his eyes tightly and a few lone tears fell down his cheeks.

Then Theodore opened his eyes and they were nothing but pure hardened steel. The pain was gone, the fear was gone. There was not even a faint glimmer of doubt or regret in those eyes any longer.

“No.”

Bond had thought he was breaking Theodore. He saw then that he had instead just made him stronger than ever.

Bond slowly removed his hands from around Theodore’s face. Bond straightened up and fought the wave of regret at his failure. The horror that he knew was coming twisted Bond’s stomach. Bond knew he wasn’t the only one that saw that new strength in Theodore. As if on cue, the door to the room was wrenched opened.

“Bond, get the fuck out here, now!” the lead interrogator barked.

Bond had no choice but to listen. In the hall, the interrogator confronted Bond.

“This is not what we had in mind! It’s frankly disgusting! And it’s not working!”

“He’s relaxed. He’s become emotionally attached to me. He’s trusted me. As I understood it, this is _exactly_ what I’d been told to do.” Bone lied smoothly, “This is just a last fake wall that he’s put up. I can break it down easily now. Just give me a few more minutes.”

The interrogator narrowed his eyes at Bond. He didn’t believe him, clearly. But he also couldn’t see any harm in giving Bond a few more minutes, Bond thought.

“Fine! But in five more minutes we are coming back in, and you are leaving whether you’ve gotten the codes or not!”

Bond went back into the room, the door slamming behind him. He knew Theodore would never give him the codes. He didn’t know what more he could do. Except say goodbye. Looking at Theodore, Bond could tell that the captive knew that too.

“You’re leaving then?” Theodore asked in a resigned voice.

“Will you give me the codes?”

“No.”

“Then yes, I’m afraid I have to leave.”

“Will you do one more thing for me, first?” Theodore asked.

“That depends on what it is. I admit your last request was quite alluring, despite the end results.”

Theodore looked up at Bond with an innocent, pleading expression that was entirely faked. Bond blinked in surprise at this sudden shift.

“Can you…can you please give me back my glasses?” Theodore’s voice cracked as he spoke. “I…I can’t see much without them. I know…I know it won’t make much of a difference, being able to see farther. But…it would make me feel better.”

That was a lie. Bond knew it immediately. Bond could tell Theodore was lying from his inflection, even without further evidence. But Bond had watched Theodore for long enough to know his eyesight wasn’t that bad. He saw it in the way Theodore had reacted to his interrogator’s facial expressions and braced for the hits as they came. He saw it in the way Theodore had followed movements, even on the other side of the room. Theodore was lying about his eyesight and why he wanted his glasses. Bond just couldn’t begin to understand _why_.

Bond wracked his brain for a few moments while he stared at Theodore’s faked timid, pleading expression. Bond couldn’t think of one thing that would be improved by having glasses he didn’t really need back. The others would doubtlessly knock them right back off when they returned. But maybe they would offer comfort in their familiarity, somehow, even if just for a few moments. Bond couldn’t think of any reason _not_ to give the boy his glasses back. So granting this seemingly inconsequential request was easy enough.

Bond picked up the glasses from the table. He slid them onto Theodore’s face, making sure they set correctly in place. Theodore winced as they came into contact with his broken nose. But he gave Bond a small smile in gratitude.

“Thank you, James.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bond’s heart ached. He wished this could be different. But he’d gotten his chance and he’d failed. He’d made his choices and he still believed they were the correct ones, no matter how damning. There was nothing else he could do.

Bond turned to leave, pausing only once he was at the door. He turned back around to lock eyes one more time with the beautiful, beaten, but _not_ _broken_ boy. He did look more comfortable with his glasses on, somehow.

“Goodbye, Theodore.”

“Goodbye, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, we’ve made it through the torture segment of the fic. Some action and bloody vengeance coming up next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

Bond took a few moments to collect himself after leaving Theodore and the interrogation room. He went into the washroom down the hall and splashed water on his face.

He was doing this for England and _all_ of her people, he reminded himself. Even if he tried to escape with Theodore, it was highly likely the boy would be killed in the process. And all the sacrifices would then be for nothing, _including_ Theodore’s. He had to finish this, Bond told himself. He had to bring these fucking terrorists down once and for all, every last one of them.

So Bond left the washroom and joined the other men in the observation room to again watch Theodore be tortured. Bond forced himself to look through the one-way glass and again set eyes upon the boy he couldn’t save. Bond froze at what he saw.

The rope tying Theodore’s wrists together and to the chair was entirely undone. It hung loosely in the boy’s hands, barely maintaining any semblance of being tied. When had Theodore managed to _do_ that? It had been loose, but still secure enough the last time Bond had looked at it. That hadn’t been that long ago. Bond’s mind raced. Had Theodore finished untying himself _while they were kissing_?! That little cheeky shit! He just kept being shockingly impressive.

Bond almost let a wide grin split apart his face, but he caught himself at the last moment. A second later, the elation died. This would make no difference in the end. There were three experienced terrorists in the room with Theodore. There were armed guards outside in the hall. Bond himself and the two others in the observation room were just next door. There was no way Theodore was getting past all of them. And even if he did, there were dozens more terrorists throughout the base. And the base was in the middle of the dessert, far away from any possible help.

Theodore was going to die, no matter what he did, Bond sadly knew. But if he wanted to go down fighting, even if it pissed off his captors enough to hurt him more, then that was his choice. Bond wasn’t going to take it away from him. Bond wasn’t about to tell anyone about the ropes being untied.

The lead interrogator stomped toward Theodore, impatience and anger in his every step. Bond watched, trying to remember to keep breathing as he did so.

It was only Bond’s honed observation skills that let him keep track of what happened next. Theodore moved faster than he had any right to, especially in the condition that he was in.

Theodore dropped the rope that was no longer tied to his hands. He whipped his arms around in front of him and took off his glasses in one quick movement. He twisted the glasses in his hands at an odd angle that seemed sure to break them. The bridge of the glasses came apart, splitting the glasses into two pieces. Theodore put his hands to his mouth for a moment, swallowing something that Bond couldn’t quite see. Thoughts of cyanide capsules flew through Bond’s mind, but he quickly dismissed the notion as Theodore continued to move with purpose. Theodore further twisted the glasses apart in his hands.

The thin plastic sheathes covering the stems of the glasses fell off. Theodore gripped one of the lenses in the palm of each hand. He positioned the exposed stems so they stood out between his middle and ring fingers of each hand. The stems gleamed like blades, looking impossibly sharp in Theodore’s hands. It reminded Bond of civilians putting their keys between their fingers when feeling threatened. But Theodore’s weapons looked infinitely more dangerous. The blades looked razor sharp, with a further reach than exposed keys. Theodore looked like Wolverine with only one thin claw per hand; each curved a little where they had once hooked behind his ears. 

Bond inhaled sharply, not believing what he was seeing. Before Bond could even consider reacting, before anyone else gave any sign they had any idea what was happening, it was too late

Theodore leaped up, much faster than he had any right to do with his battered knee, as the ice pack fell forgotten to the floor. In one swift motion Theodore stabbed the lead interrogator in the throat, right where his ear met his jaw. Theodore twisted the blade, then swung it along the full width of the man’s throat all the way to his other ear. Blood sprayed from the terrorist’s throat onto Theodore’s face. Both the terrorist’s jugular and carotid artery were likely severed. The man barely had time to clutch his throat and choke on his own blood before he fell to the floor. He would bleed out in no time.

Theodore didn’t pause to look at his handiwork. While the first man was still in the process of falling to the floor, Theodore leapt at the next interrogator. The man tried to block with one hand and grab at Theodore with the other, but Theodore drove one of his blades clean through the man’s wrist and into the nearby wall.

Bond had no idea what the blades were made of. They seemed impossibly thin, but apparently extremely strong. The man’s wrist was effectively pinned to the wall. He struggled to free himself as blood ran down his arm. But the eyeglass lens was still attached to the blade on one end, rubbing up against the terrorist’s wrist and preventing him from yanking his arm free. The blade had dug in deep into the wall on the other end. The man was trapped, at least for the moment.

The last terrorist grabbed Theodore from behind, his beefy arms snaking around Theodore’s slim waist. Theodore went limp in his grip for a moment, then violently twisted up, swinging his remaining blade around in a wide arc. It went straight into the man’s ear canal. Theodore quickly pulled it out, a thick string of blood following in its wake. The man twitched and his expression went slack. The blade may have made it far enough inside to hit his brain. He might be done already. But Theodore slit his throat just to be sure. The man fell to the ground, twitching as he died.

Theodore moved back to the man pinned to the wall. He showed no mercy or hesitation. He slashed his blade against the last man’s throat, as well. The man gagged on his own blood. Theodore removed his other blade from the dead man’s wrist, twisting it in such a way that it easily came loose with another spurt of blood. The man slid lifelessly down to the ground, joining his three companions.

Theodore didn’t slow down now that those three men were dead. His blades still tucked between his fingers, he ran the few steps to his laptop, which the terrorists had left on the nearby table while they’d been still intent on Theodore giving them codes. He opened it, and started frantically typing. Holding the blades via the lenses in his palms didn’t seem to slow his typing speed in the slightest. Did the lenses somehow suction themselves to his palms? It seemed that way to Bond. Theodore’s fingers flew over the keys faster than Bond’s eyes could follow, seemingly entirely unconcerned about the dangerously sharp blades in his hands. There must have been some type of protection at the end of the blades near the lens, too, so Theodore didn’t cut himself.

Bond was in a daze, unable to do anything besides stare in awe at Theodore. The other men in the observation room seemed in a similar state of shock. But they snapped out of it, now that the carnage was over and the boy continued typing. They ran out into the hall, yelling at the guard to open the door and shoot the prisoner.

Bond stepped halfway into the hall so he could watch the terrorists and still keep an eye on what Theodore was doing. The guard swiped his keycard into the door’s lock, then tried to yank open the door. But it wouldn’t budge. Bond’s lip twitched, fighting back a pleased smirk.

Theodore was still typing rapidly at his laptop.

Another terrorist came running into the hall, tablet in hand.

“He’s accessed our security systems!” The man screamed in rage. “We have to get in there and stop him!”

The terrorists tried other key cards. They took turns trying to yank the door open, but it was useless. Theodore was the only one that could open it now.

For a few glorious moments Bond believed Theodore might have a chance to escape. Bond let himself imagine, just for a moment, that Theodore would live. Bond could find him when this was all over. He could explain. He could apologize and beg for forgiveness.

Bond shifted his gaze more fully toward Theodore. Bond just stood and watched Theodore work in complete adoration. Bond wished more than ever that he could help Theodore escape. Between the two of them, now knowing what Theodore was capable of, it might almost be possible.

He wished Theodore could see him through the one-way mirror. He wished he could let Theodore know he was there. But all Bond could do was watch. Even if he could get a message through the wall somehow, Theodore had no reason to trust him. Bond had done nothing to prove he would have Theodore’s back. He’d tried to force Theodore to do what the terrorists wanted, just like the rest of them.

Bond briefly considered using one of the chairs in the observation room and breaking the glass separating the rooms. But the glass might well be reinforced and not break before someone else noticed what Bond was doing. And the place was crawling with terrorists now. Even between the two of them, getting out of there alive was unlikely. Breaking that barrier between them would just hasten Theodore’s death. It was a testament to how shocked everyone was that no one else had thought to do that to get to the boy.

Besides, Bond still had his mission, he firmly reminded himself. He still couldn’t abandon it for the slim possibility of saving one life. No matter how _amazing_ Theodore was proving himself to be.

Then Bond glanced back out into the hall and watched as more terrorists rushed toward the interrogation room door. They were carrying a battering ram. Bond’s remaining hopes faded. It was just a matter of time before they broke the door down and killed Theodore.

Each terrorist had a machine gun. No matter how efficiently Theodore had killed three men with only wire-thin blades, no matter how deep he was hacking their security system, he still wasn’t going to escape. He was still going to die while Bond watched.

Bond went back to the observation room. He let the door swing shut behind him, not wanting to watch the terrorists batter down the door. Bond let the pain and regrets show on his face. No one was watching him. He was alone in the room, for the moment. He took a deep breath and let even further buried emotions show on his face. Bond looked at Theodore as the boffin continued to type away. Deep fondness filled Bond’s eyes, and a small wistful smile settled on his lips. If only, he thought….if _only_ …

Then the door to the observation room slammed open and Bond slammed down his mask back onto his face.

“The little fucker has started the self destruct sequence!” the man yelled at Bond. “We have less than five minutes to get out of here before the whole place blows!”

“ _What_?! This base has a self destruct sequence?!” Bond hissed.

This was the first he was hearing about it. But he didn’t have time to absorb the insane news. The terrorist was grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the room. Bond didn’t struggle. He needed to live. He needed to maintain his cover. He needed to finish his mission. There was still nothing he could do for Theodore. But he did steal once last glance at Theodore. The boy continued to type, a look of intense concentration on his face as he stared at his computer screen.

Then Bond was out of the room and running beside the other terrorists to escape the base.

Bond wanted to believe that Theodore had some other genius plan up to his sleeve to get himself out of there before the explosion, too. But he knew better. Even if Theodore opened the cell door for himself; or even if Theodore managed to break through the mirror with nothing much there to smash it, considering the only chair in that room was nailed down; there was still no hope for him to escape. There were only a few entrances in and out of the base. Every one of them had armed guards. If Theodore tried to escape, they would catch him and kill him. The base was large enough that by the time the guards abandoned their posts outside the entrances, there wouldn’t be time to run from the interrogation room to get clear of what Bond assumed would be a huge explosion.

Once the guards left their positions, the remaining terrorists had already made it safely away and to higher ground. The sandy hill was high enough they could look down at the entire complex. They soon had set up snipers at various positions on the hill, watching every base exit. Bond was quickly enlisted as one of those snipers. Bond’s emotions were torn between relief the terrorists trusted him enough to give him a sniper rifle, and horror at the prospect of having to shoot Theodore.

He was also torn between wanting to see Theodore emerge and hoping it didn’t happen. Bond would have to shoot him if he did. There was no way the boy would get past the group without someone else seeing him. If Bond didn’t shoot and kill him, someone else would. Theodore’s fate would still be death by terrorist in the end, one way or another.

But Theodore never appeared.

“The door to his cell is still locked closed.” Bond heard the terrorist with the tablet announce with satisfaction. “He never opened it. He must have decided suicide was preferable to trying to run. The kid turned out to be a tougher little shit than we expected. But he’s still going to die now, in his little cell, while we’re all safely out here. He wasn’t a good enough hacker to shorten the safety timer on the self destruct sequence and trap us in the explosion.”

The terrorist base exploded with all due spectacle and noise, right on time. The flames shot high into the sky and entirely engulfed the compound. No one could have survived that. The group waited and watched for another two hours though, just in case. No one emerged from the smoldering ruins.

So Bond was forced to accept that Theodore had died that day. But at least this was an end that seemed more fitting for him. He hadn’t gone out with a whimper forced by his torturers. He’d gone out with a bang, on his own terms. Bond was thankful for that much, and that he’d gotten to witness it all. He would never forget Theodore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite what Bond thinks, it’s pretty obvious Q isn’t dead, right? But I’ll say it just in case anyone needs the assurance. Q is a self rescuing boffin and is on the road to recovery! Bond and Q will be reunited later! Most likely as soon as next chapter, though some time will pass in-story for them.
> 
> Also, Q weaponizing his glasses into stem-blades and using them to kill his kidnappers was the idea that sparked this entire fic for me. So I hope reading it felt at least half as satisfying as imagining it did for me.


	5. Chapter 5

The mission dragged on. Bond went with the terrorists to another base in another godforsaken dessert. He was again denied access to the limited internet they had. He remained cut off from MI6 and the rest of the world. But, small mercies, the terrorists didn’t subject him to watching or participating in any more torturing of captives. They seemed to have lost a taste for it after all the damage Theodore had done.

Besides the three interrogators that Theodore had killed with his blades, an additional five were missing and presumed dead in the explosion. Despite the group thinking everyone had gotten out in time, clearly some people hadn’t made it. Besides that, the explosion had destroyed a great deal of weapons and equipment stored at the base. It’d gotten the attention of the local authorities. The group was more pissed about that than the loss of life, Bond could tell.

Good for Theodore, Bond privately thought. It had cost him his life, but he’d dealt more of a blow to these terrorist assholes than he would ever know. It wasn’t enough to pay them back for his pain, suffering, and death, of course. But it was still something. Bond would see the rest of the tab was paid, eventually. He’d kill all of these fuckers and leave only a smoldering hole behind where their organization used to be.

Bond was doing it because it was his job, for MI6, for England. But he was also doing it for _Theodore._ Bond was honest enough with himself to admit that the boy’s death had made this all more personal for him. Rather than trying to suppress that, Bond embraced it. It gave him the anger, the energy, the fortitude to get through this. He would succeed because he _had_ to, and also _for Theodore_.

\--------------------------

Three months after Theodore’s death, Bond was done. He’d completed the mission. He’d finished it, finally and definitively.

The terrorist leadership group was entirely dead. Every other member of the group that Bond had encountered was also dead. Bond hadn’t bothered to capture any and spare their lives. Bond had the information he needed. There was nothing they could tell him of value. And they deserved to die. What was the point of having a license to kill if he didn’t use it, after all? Bond had the legal right to be judge, jury, and executioner while out in the field. So he was, without an ounce of regret, in this case.

The weapons, including some of mass destruction, were all accounted for. Some he’d destroyed, along with their remaining bases. Others he’d carefully cataloged and secured for MI6 pick-up.

It was done, finally. Bond was exhausted, physically and mentally, but it was _done_.

Bond felt like his entire body was made up of raw nerves. He felt like every muscle in his body was tense, clenched, with no hope of ever fully relaxing again. He’d made it through the entire mission in fairly good health, considering his track record. No bullet wounds, no broken bones. It was a small miracle. But in a way, it made things worse. There was no pressing physical pain to distract himself with. All he was left with was his mental turmoil.

Bond should have felt happy it was done. He should have felt relieved, justified, satisfied, and sated. Instead he just felt spent, empty, and numb.

Bond had dreamed of Theodore most every night since the boy’s death. Occasionally they were pleasant dreams. Theodore, well and whole and healthy, gasping in delight while Bond pleasured him. Theodore looking at him with understanding, fond eyes, as if Bond was worthy of his forgiveness. Theodore laughing and smiling at Bond, without a care or worry, as Bond had never seen him in life. Theodore trusting Bond with his body and his happiness, as if Bond hadn’t betrayed and failed him in every way.

But more often, the dreams were much more realistic. Theodore screaming. Theodore covered in blood. Theodore cursing Bond with nothing but hate in his eyes. Theodore telling him how Bond was nothing but a heartless killer, barely any better than the terrorists Bond fought against. Theodore slashing Bond’s neck with his clever blades, then stabbing him in the heart over and over. 

No one had haunted Bond’s dreams this thoroughly since Vesper. He hadn’t felt this sort of connection to anyone since Vesper. But like Vesper, Bond told himself, he would let Theodore go eventually. Not entirely, of course. Theodore, like Vesper, was a mark on Bond’s soul and memories that would never entirely fade. But eventually he wouldn’t dream of Theodore every night. Eventually, he would only occasionally be reminded of the boy that’d so captivated him and he’d been unable to save. But until that _eventually_ arrived, Bond found himself seeing Theodore’s green eyes practically every time Bond closed his own eyes.

Bond needed a break, he knew that. He needed time away from missions, away from MI6, to piece himself back together. He needed time to rebuild his walls around his raw nerves. He needed time to get himself to relax, fraction by fraction, until he could breathe again. He needed to disappear for awhile.

The weapons needing pick-up was the only reason Bond didn’t hesitate to contact MI6 first. Bond got himself to civilization for the first time in over nine months, got a cheap hotel room, got a burner phone, and went through the process of the line being secured and verifying who he was to MI6. It was a frustratingly long process, much of which Bond spent on hold.

Bond had been waiting for, and fully expecting to talk to, M. But he got Tanner, and Tanner asked for his report, refusing to explain further than that M was unavailable. Bond was annoyed and frustrated; he wanted to hear M’s voice. But he wanted this to be over even more. So Bond reported the details of his long, arduous, but ultimately successful mission.

Bond didn’t mention the tortures he’d had to stand by and watch. He didn’t mention Theodore. Certain details weren’t relevant. It was enough to say he’d gained the group’s trust through long and hard work. It was enough to say it was done, concentrating on the information he’d gotten from the terrorists, not how he’d done it.

“Good work, 007,” Tanner told him dryly, once Bond had finished talking. “We’ll get right on the pick-up of those weapons, and we’ll arrange for your transport home as quickly as possible. Of course there’s still the matter of the written report, but there’s no great rush on that, under the circumstances.”

That was odd, Bond noted. He was never told a written report could wait, unless they were pressing him into another mission right away. But that couldn’t be the case here. They had to know Bond needed recovery time, after how extended the length of this mission had become. If they didn’t, Bond was fully prepared to deny whatever nonsense they were going to ask him to do. He wasn’t fit for duty and he knew it without a doubt.

“Now, 007, there have been… _developments_ here while you’ve been away. Considering your reported lack of access to news for so many months, I can only assume you’re entirely unaware of them,” Tanner continued. “Technically I ought to wait until you’re here in person to fill you in. But it’s highly likely you might stumble upon some of them before you arrive here. So I believe its better if I…”

“Just get on with it, Tanner!” Bond snapped, his patience only hanging on by the barest of threads.

So Tanner did, and what little had been left of secure ground for Bond to stand on shattered.

\-----------------------------------

Explosion at Vauxhall. Major Boothroyd dead. M dead. The traitor, Silva, also dead. A new M appointed. A new Quartermaster appointed. MI6 moved to new headquarters.

MI6 had been practically destroyed and was well along in being rebuilt, all in the time Bond had been out of contact. That was what ripped apart Bond inside the most; that it had all happened _without_ him. He hadn’t been there to fight for the closest thing to a family that he had. He hadn’t even _known_ it was happening. Now it was already all over. It had been over for _five months_ already. It had begun only a few months after Bond went dark.

Tanner told Bond to come in, meet the new M, meet the new Q, see the new headquarters. He’d be given plenty of leave after that, plenty of time to acclimate himself to the changes before being sent on another mission.

Tanner’s voice had a pleading, cajoling edge to it. He didn’t mention Bond needed to visit Medical. He didn’t mention Bond needed to go through psych evaluations and retesting. Bond judged Tanner’s tone as he half listened to the man. He knew Bond well enough to know Bond wasn’t taking any of this news well. He knew Bond wasn’t likely to obey him at the moment, so he wasn’t making anything a direct order. He wasn’t threatening Bond. Bond appreciated that, in a distant, distracted, numb way.

Tanner tried his best. Bond gave him credit for that. His concern for Bond’s well-being seemed like it might be genuine, but Bond couldn’t tell for sure. Bond didn’t really care, either way.

The only one Bond might have listened to was M. _His_ M. Now she was dead. Dead and buried, and replaced, for months already. Bond had been denied even the possibility of attending her funeral.

Bond ended the call, not agreeing or disagreeing to anything outright.

Bond didn’t take the transport. Bond didn’t go back to England.

Bond disappeared.

\----------------------------------

Bond went to the Caribbean.

He swam, and sunbathed, and drank, and fucked everyone that he fancied and could reel in. He was still James Bond, so he could reel in practically anyone that took his fancy. When he was fucking someone, for brief moments, he could feel good again. When he was drunk enough, he could forget for whole hours. Otherwise, he could do nothing but remember and feel a mixture of disgust and anger at it all, refusing to examine the deep hurt underneath that.

M’s death occupied his mind the most. Enough that a full five days passed before Bond searched the internet for Theodore Fortnum.

The terrorists hadn’t spoken of Theodore again after the base explosion and Bond couldn’t risk his cover by asking. By the time Bond found the group’s leaders, it hardly seemed to matter enough to delay killing the bastards. So he hadn’t asked.

Bond had wondered, in the days following Theodore’s death, who the boy actually was. Bond wondered, briefly, if Theodore had been MI6. He didn’t seem like an MI6 field agent. But his surprising skills, coupled with his weaponized eyeglasses, and that brief flash of recognition toward Bond, all made Bond consider the possibility. But if he had been, why hadn’t he _told_ Bond that? They’d had enough time together that he could have given Bond a sign of some sort; if not outright said it for fear of being overheard.

Bond had replayed their interactions over and over in his head, considering if he’d missed anything. It was possible, Bond decided. Theodore _might_ have been MI6. Or he might have been an agent from another organization. Or he might have been a tech for a weapons manufacturer, like the terrorists had said. Working in making weapons could account for the glasses and fighting skills, just as likely as being an agent could.

But in the end, what did it matter? Theodore was dead, no matter who he had been in life. Bond had failed to save him, no matter what his background was. What would knowing who he was help? Even if he had family that Bond should notify, Bond couldn’t. The mission was classified. His family would be better off not knowing how much he had suffered.

So Bond had pushed aside his curiosity about Theodore’s background while he finished his mission. But now that Bond had nothing but free time, giving in to at least a simple internet search was inevitable.

The first search result was an article from the London Daily Times, _Local Man Missing_. It had been published roughly a week after Theodore’s death. Though of course the article didn’t say he was dead; the reporter wouldn’t have had any way to know that.

It detailed how Theodore hadn’t reported in to work for over a week, had not been heard from, and no one had been able to locate him. It mentioned Theodore was a tech team lead at _StillSafe: Weapons and Security_ , a company specializing in developing unique weapons and computer security systems. So it seemed the terrorists had been telling the truth about Theodore’s identity. The article listed Theodore as being 31, older than Bond would have ever guessed, and having no immediate family.

Bond tried to take some comfort in both of those facts, but found none. Theodore wasn’t as young as Bond had thought, but still far too young to die the way he had. Theodore might not have family to mourn him, but the man had been too remarkable for him not be missed.

The article was short, the rest generic, typical of a missing persons case that the police didn’t have much to go on for. 

The only other item of value in the article was a photo of Theodore. Theodore smiling, wide and happy, as Bond had never seen him before. His green eyes shined behind his glasses. His hair was a curly, gorgeous mess. His clothes included a hideous purple striped shirt that somehow looked cute on him. His posture was relaxed and confident. Bond’s heart clenched at the sight and his throat closed up. Bond didn’t let himself cry, but it was a close thing.

Bond could have dug further. There were additional links right there in the search results. He could have gone to the _StillSafe_ site. He could have looked at Theodore’s social media accounts. But instead, Bond viciously slammed closed the new laptop he’d bought. When slamming the thing shut didn’t help his mood at all, Bond threw the computer violently against the hotel room wall. It smashed against the wall, and then fell to the hard floor with a satisfying crunch.

Bond had a brief stray thought that Theodore might have gotten upset at such blatantly careless destruction of technology.

Bond got out his bottle of vodka, poured himself a drink, and tried his damndest to not think any more that night.

\-------------------------------------

Bond spent two weeks in the Caribbean doing everything he knew how to do to feel human again. Then he did everything he knew how to do to forget how horrible feeling human was. So essentially he went on a binge cycle of fucking and drinking, with gourmet food for every meal, and some sun and swimming thrown in occasionally. It made him feel moderately better, but only _just_.

It barely felt worthwhile, after the first few days. But it felt even less worth the effort to go anywhere else, or to do anything else. So Bond gave himself up to this cycle for two weeks.

In the end, he missed his home. Even without M, even with MI6 changed without him, even without a flat or place to stay, England was still James’ home….and _oh_ , he hadn’t thought of himself as _James_ instead of just _Bond_ in well over a year. He hadn’t even realized it until just then.

No matter how many beautiful women and enticing men had gasped out ‘James!’ in pleasure over the last two weeks, James hadn’t felt fully himself in his head. He’d still felt like he was in deep cover mission mode. He’d felt like he had to be Bond, 007, only. He couldn’t afford to feel like _James_ , and all the softer emotions that went with that, until just that moment. Until he remembered how much he loved England. Until he admitted to himself how much he was longing to be back in London.

With that realization, James opened himself up to a new world of hurt. He admitted to himself just how much he missed M, Theodore, Vesper, and even still his parents. And how much he would miss them all for the rest of his life.

But after admitting how much he hurt, it was easier to admit what he needed to heal. James needed London. James needed to see his home. He needed to see the people there. The people he’d been able to save. Even if he’d failed the ones closest to him. Even if the people he’d saved would never know what he’d done for them. He still needed to see them. He needed to stand in England and look around at her people, be surrounded by them with all their beauty and all their flaws. He needed to see that the _people_ in the place he loved were worth saving by being among them again.

James needed to go home. And so he did.

\------------------------------

James didn’t report to MI6. He wasn’t ready for that yet. He wasn’t ready for his body to be prodded by Medical. He wasn’t ready for his mind to be prodded by Psych. He wasn’t ready to meet the new execs and see how much had changed without him.

So he rented a hotel room under one of his false identities, one that wouldn’t alert MI6 to his return, and dropped off his meager possessions there. He had a meal and caught a few hours of sleep. Then James went to the park.

It wasn’t a large park. It wasn’t a famous park. But it was a nice slice of green and peace amidst the hustle and bustle of London. It was near lunch time and a weekday. So not too crowded, but enough people to have plenty to watch without focusing on anyone in particular. It was overcast rather than sunny, and slightly chilly. But it was London and not raining, so a fine day to be outside.

James picked a bench that was a little ways away, up on a gentle slope of land, with a tree right behind it. Without much sun out, no one else would approach the spot for the shade. From there, James could watch most of the park without being disturbed, and without feeling like anyone was likely to sneak up on him from behind.

James sat there for awhile, just watching the people enjoy the park. He watched a young couple kiss over a picnic. He watched children play with toy boats in the small pond, their parents nearby. He watched a group of teenagers spread out books in what looked like a study session. He watched a young man throw a ball to a dog. It did more for his soul in an hour, than drinking and fucking around on beaches had for two weeks.

James turned his attention back towards the children with the toy boats. They were disassembling one of the ships, taking it apart and looking at the pieces. Whether they were trying to see how it worked, or planned to use the parts for something else, James couldn’t tell.

James stiffened, feeling someone coming up the path toward his bench without having to actually turn to see and confirm it. James was enough in tune with his surroundings, and well trained enough, to note how slowly the person was approaching him. The person walked with a limp and a cane, James thought. James easily enough gauged all that without turning his head, without any outward sign he’d noticed the person at all.

It seemed unlikely someone walking that slowly was a threat. But James’ training and ingrained paranoia demanded no less than this response. Pretending he didn’t know he was being approached gave him the element of surprise, if needed. Sometimes that was enough to save his life. James didn’t turn to look until the person was only a few meters away from him. Close enough that James could lunge at them if a defensive attack was needed.

James slowly shifted his eyes to watch as the person walked the last few steps toward him. James looked at the legs first, confirming the limp favoring the weaker right leg and the cane. James’ eyes quickly trailed upward to take in the rest of the person, and then James stopped breathing.

James entire body tensed. He felt his face form an expression of pure shock for a second, before he automatically forced it into a blank mask. He forced himself to breath. He forced down his instinct to jump up and grab the man standing next to him. He forced himself to remain seated, still and nonthreatening, for a moment. Then he slowly rose. Only once he was standing eye to eye with the man did James let himself speak.

 _“Theodore!”_ It came out as a hissed whisper, the tone a mixture of accusation, elation, and pure disbelief.

A small smile flashed across the man’s face, bittersweet and apologetic.

“Hello, James.”

James had to remind himself to keep breathing again. He had to tell himself this was real, he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. The voice, the expression, and his name on those lips confirmed it. _Theodore._ It was Theodore, there and alive and standing right in front of James at a little park in London.

They were of the same height, James noticed, and he realized the two of them had never stood next to each other before. Before, Theodore had been dragged in half hanging from his captors’ grips, and then tied to a chair for days, then in near constant motion killing his tormentors, and then bent over his computer and typing. James had assumed Theodore was shorter than him, but the current evidence proved otherwise.

Theodore’s body was so slim compared to James’ own, that his being shorter just seemed to fit. That Theodore was a similar height to James further confirmed to him that this was real. James’ mind wouldn’t have imagined Theodore this tall.

Theodore was wearing a royal blue cardigan over a mustard yellow shirt and a thin red tie, with light brown trousers and darker brown boots. It was an affront to fashion, but James had never seen anything as beautiful as the sight in front of him. _Theodore, **alive**._

James resisted the urge to hug Theodore, to take the man into his arms, and press him tight and safe against James’ body. He resisted the urge to kiss him, to taste him, to feel his breath against James’ own mouth and confirm they were both still breathing. James forced himself to focus more on Theodore’s appearance, instead.

Theodore’s hair looked thick and luxurious, as it had when James had first seen him, before it’d had dried blood caking it. James was glad it hadn’t needed to be cut, or if it had, it had already grown back by then. It had been months, James reminded himself.

Theodore’s cane appeared to be good, solid wood, with a brass handle shaped like a snarling cat head on the top. Theodore leaned on it, his long fingers gripping that handle as he stood looking at James.

Theodore wore thick glasses, though a different pair than he’d used to take his justified revenge on the terrorists. James wouldn’t be surprised if they had the exact same capabilities to become weapons, though. Theodore’s eyes were the same green that James remembered. There was a hint of some buried pain in them, but they were still more calm and confident than James had ever seen them before.

Theodore licked his lips and swallowed. James couldn’t help noting how soft and healthy his lips and tongue looked. No more swelling or cracks. No more blood.

“May I sit?” Theodore asked, gesturing first to his cane and then to the bench

James nodded, quickly retaking his seat and leaving room next to him for the younger man. Internally, James kicked himself for making Theodore stand for any longer than necessary. But he couldn’t manage to speak yet. His mind was still swirling in shock, trying to absorb this seemingly miraculous development.

Theodore sat close enough that their thighs nearly touched. He leaned his cane against the bench and stretched out his weak leg. James found himself staring at Theodore’s knee, silently wondering how bad the damage was.

“The knee cap had to be replaced. It’s mostly metal now. But the surgery went well,” Theodore offered in response to James’ unspoken question. “I’m told I’ll be able to regain full use of the leg in due time, and not need the cane any longer. Provided I properly keep up with my physical therapy and don’t overly tax myself.”

James breathed a deep sigh of relief at that news. He promised himself that he’d do whatever he could to make sure Theodore stayed on that regimen to recovery, if he got that chance. Not that James had any right to ask to be a part of Theodore’s life. But Theodore had sought him out. Theodore was looking at him with understanding and acceptance, not accusation or anger. So James seemed to be getting that chance, and he was going to grab and hold onto it with everything he had.

Theodore turned from James to gaze out at the park for awhile. He was letting James stare at him. He was letting James have time to absorb this. James was grateful and took another few moments. Then the questions started pressing harder in James’ mind than the shock.

“How did you escape?”

“Sewer grate in the cell,” Theodore answered without hesitation. “Designed to help wash away blood after interrogations, no doubt. If I were at all a more robust man, I wouldn’t have been able to fit through. But I managed, and I’d given myself enough time to get a safe distance through the sewer tunnels before the explosion. I kept the cell door locked to give credence to my being killed. I knew they were monitoring the security system. After the explosion, it was just a matter of time to wait for the extraction I’d ordered from my laptop.”

“So you’re MI6, then?” James asked. With the mention of the extraction, and the fact that Theodore had found him at the park, it was the most likely explanation.

“I am,” Theodore confirmed with a slight nod. “I’m your new Quartermaster, 007.”

“ _Quartermaster?!_ ” James hissed in pure shock. “For how long?!”

“For five months now,” was the calmly stated answer.

“So you were _already_ , when they…” James couldn’t help growling in frustration and dawning horror. “You were **_my_** _Quartermaster_ and I _watched_ while they…The _codes_ they wanted… _MI6 access codes?!_ **_I_** _tried to_ _convince you to give them **MI6 access codes**?! _Why didn’t you _tell_ me?! You _knew_ who I was, didn’t you?! I could have…”

This just made everything James had done _so much worse_ , to him. Not only had he stood by and let Theodore be tortured, but he’d risked MI6, England, _everything_ that James held dear by endangering the information Theodore had been protecting. If only James had _known_ , he would have thrown the mission aside and saved his Quartermaster. To think that only a thin one-way mirror had been between James and the terrorists threatening **_Q_** and demanding _MI6_ access, while James just stood there and watched, made his stomach roil and his blood boil.

James’ voice was edging toward rage filled hysterics, and he was leaning closer to Theodore on the bench. But Theodore took it calmly without so much as flinching back a centimeter. There was that steel in those green eyes, again.

“You couldn’t have done anything to help me without blowing your cover, or you would have already done it.” Theodore gave James a scowl that showed complete confidence in that statement. “You knowing who I was wouldn’t have helped anything.”

Q held up a hand for silence before James could protest.

“Of course I knew who you were as soon as I saw you, 007,” Q continued. “I hadn’t realized who the men that’d taken me were until I recognized you. But it became clear then. I was familiar with your file, as I am with all the Double-O missions as the head of Q Branch. So I knew how serious the situation was. I knew there was no way I could allow those terrorists access to MI6 files, just as I knew I couldn’t jeopardize your mission just to try and save myself.

“I may not be field agent, but I represent MI6. As an MI6 executive, if I can’t withstand torture without betraying our organization, if I’m not willing to die to protect our country, then I have no business sending our agents out asking them to do exactly that.”

James felt those words like a punch in his gut. His breath left him again. Theodore had meant them entirely honestly, James could tell. He’d said them without an ounce of hesitation or the barest flinch. Theodore was just as resolute in his conviction to MI6, to England and her people, as James himself. Even among MI6 agents, that level of devotion to their cause was rare.

An hour ago, James would have said that no matter what else he learned about Theodore, he would never be able to have more respect for him than he already had. James had thought he had already held the man in as high a regard as possible. He’d been wrong. He’d underestimated Theodore again.

This man; Theodore; **Q** was proving to be everything James had ever hoped for in a leader. James was expected to die for MI6 execs, if needed. It was part of his job and James accepted it. But for _this_ Q, James would do it happily and without hesitation.

For this Q, James would not only die, he would _live_. This was a man that James wanted to come home to after a mission. This was a man that James wanted to tell he’d been successful. This was a man that James wanted to please. He wanted this man to have no choice but to be proud of James.

With his M dead, James had worried he wouldn’t find the motivation to stay with MI6 much longer. Well he needn’t have been concerned, apparently. His new Q had earned James’ complete loyalty for life.

James had been staring at Q and saying nothing for awhile again, he realized. Q’s scowl deepened.

“I would have told you sooner, if I could have,” Q said in his own defense, mistaking James’ silence for anger. “You _were_ invited back to meet the new execs as soon as you reported in after your mission, you remember. But of course you were due your rest and your time away. I completely understand that. I tracked you to the Caribbean and considered trying to contact you there. But this seemed a thing best explained in person and I’m not… _comfortable_ with airplanes after what happened, so…”

James blinked, trying to keep up with Q’s somewhat rambling explanation. He latched on to the part at the end.

“Not comfortable with airplanes?”

“Ah, yes, well, I suppose you wouldn’t know.” Q bit his lip and looked away before answering further, “They took me while I was on a plane. The terrorists from that group. I was on my way to a tech conference in the US, we were in the middle of the flight, when they…it was a normal flight, a major airline…and they’d somehow smuggled a large hunting knife onto it. They sat down right next to me, showed me the knife, and threatened to kill everyone on the plane starting with the pregnant woman sitting in front of us, if I didn’t cooperate.

“I hesitated long enough for them to drug me. The drug wasn’t powerful enough for me to lose consciousness. Just enough to not be able to put up a fight or stealthily contact help. So I have vivid memories of the entire five hour flight after that, while being terrified and unable to think straight or move without everything swimming.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Bond hissed. “Didn’t you have an agent with you as a bodyguard?”

“Of course I did.” Q huffed. “They paid him off before the flight.”

A cold determined weight settled into the pit of James’ stomach at those words.

“What’s his name?” James asked with a smile that he knew held the promise of death behind it.

“He’s in prison. He was caught before I even escaped. Don’t concern yourself with him.” Q waved the question away.

James would find the name, he promised himself. If the traitor ever got out of prison, James would make sure he was dead within days. Hell, why wait that long? Fatal _accidents_ happened in prisons all the time, and James had plenty of contacts that owed him favors. Someone would know someone that could get it done discretely. But he needn’t concern Q with that.

“So I owe you an apology for not being able to meet you sooner and introduce myself properly,” Q offered. “But as soon as I saw you’d returned to London, I tracked you here and came to talk.”

“How _did_ you do that, exactly? I’m not upset, just curious!” James hastened to add. “I’m not upset about you not being able to get to me sooner, either. I’m not that much of a bastard to expect you to voluntarily get on a plane again, after that.”

Q took a deep breath, and then exhaled it in clear relief. He gave James a small rueful smile.

“I tracked you via facial recognition software I developed. CCTV cameras led me here.”

James nodded, accepting the answer.

James found himself just staring at Q again. The man was so gorgeous, so _alive_ , so amazing, that James couldn’t manage to look away. But he found himself at a loss for what else to _say_. The two of them had been through such an intense experience together that James couldn’t help feeling close to Q. He respected the man immensely. And he couldn’t help feeling extremely fond of Q.

He’d dreamed about fucking Q, many times, for Christ’s sake. Now that Q was alive, James wanted to pursue him. He wanted to flirt, and charm, and seduce the man until Q was as addicted to James as James was already to Q. But it wasn’t just sexual attraction. James wanted to protect Q. He wanted to help Q with his physical therapy for his knee. He wanted to undress Q and kiss every scar left on his body by those bastards. He wanted to make Q feel safe. He wanted to make Q laugh. He wanted to make Q _his_.

Q shared James’ love for England and his commitment to protecting their country first. As Quartermaster, he’d already chosen a dangerous life and shown he was prepared and able to fight for what he believed in. Being with James wouldn’t draw him into James’ type of life; Q was already there.

Q _knew_ what James was. He knew what James did. More than any lover James had ever taken, Q would understand what it would mean to be with James. He would be under no illusions as to what he was getting into. James wanted that with a sudden intensity he hadn’t been expecting. He wanted _Q_.

James very rarely resisted pursuing what he wanted. But at the same time, this was still so new and raw. James had no idea if Q was even remotely interested in him, or if what they’d shared in that cell had been just a distraction so Q could prepare himself to escape. James wanted this to _last_ , whatever this became. So James would tread lightly and take his time, for as long as his patience could hold.

Q shifted on the bench, made brief eye contact with James, and then looked back out into the park. It seemed James’ scrutiny was finally getting to him.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” James said with conviction. “I should have said that straight away, but it was a bit of a shock. Still _is._ But no matter how much I hate how it all went down, I am nothing but thrilled and relieved that you’re alive.”

“Yes, well, that’s good.” Q continued to watch the park, not turning back to James. “I’m very glad you’re alive, as well, of course. I’m glad you decided to return to London, too. I’m looking forward to working with you properly, when the time comes. I’ve done a lot of reorganizing in Q Branch. We should be able to support our field agents better than ever.”

Q looked back at James then, offering a somewhat shy smile. James smiled back. There was hope there, in that look between them, James thought. Hope and potential.

“I look forward to absolutely everything you’re willing to offer me.” James turned up his smile a notch.

The two of them maintained eye contact for a moment, both with smiles on their faces. Q was the first to turn away, again.

“I suspect you have more questions. Feel free to ask whatever you’d like,” Q offered.

James’ mind immediately went to the small intimacies they’d shared in that interrogation room. He wanted to ask if it had affected Q as much as it had James. He wanted to ask if it was _still_ affecting Q as much as it was James. He wanted to ask if Q would like another kiss, now that they were both free to do what they wanted. He wanted to ask if Q would like to go to lunch with him and then to James’ hotel room, right then, that afternoon.

But James asked none of those things. This meant more to him than his usual flings. He wanted to do this right. He wanted to build the foundation for this so it would _last._

So James asked something else entirely. But something he’d been genuinely curious about for awhile.

“Tell me about how your glasses work. I was not expecting that _at all_ when you asked me to give you them back. Did you design them yourself?”

“Oh, yes, you saw that? I had thought you might be watching, but I wasn’t sure.” Q smiled, seeming happy to talk about his work and making James glad he’d chosen to ask this. “It was one of my first projects after I joined Q Branch. Major Boothroyd always did like cleverly disguised weapons and he was eager to approve it.

“Putting them back together to resemble regular glasses takes time and tools, so I won’t actually disassemble them right now. But I can explain the basic functions.”

Q took off his glasses and gestured to the specific parts as he explained them.

“The glasses break apart at the bridge easily when twisted. The nose pads are made of a solution that dissolves quickly in saliva, but not other liquids, and each holds a different drug combination. One is a powerful pain reliever, the other a mixture of an adrenalin boosting drug and concentrated caffeine. That was how I was able to fight, despite my injuries and exhaustion. It only lasts an hour at most, and there’s a hard crash afterward. But I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did otherwise.

“The casing comes off the stems to reveal the blades underneath, which I imagine you figured out. The stem-blades are razor sharp from all angles and made of a very strong steel-diamond blend. They can pierce nearly anything with enough applied force, including Kevlar body armor. There’s a small bit of buffer on the ends to protect my fingers. The lenses work as handles to grip with my fists, and they suction to my palms to keep the blades in place during fighting. It takes a specific twisting motion to remove them.”

“Remarkable.” James nodded as he listened, impressed. “I imagine the practice necessary to use them effectively is why Boothroyd never offered them to field agents?”

“Exactly,” Q confirmed. “I’d been doing taekwondo with my…friend for awhile before I began work on my stem-blades. He’s a master of Korean martial arts and helped a lot with the design, as well as taught me how best to use the blades. It’s not an easy skill to pick up. Most agents are better off with traditional knives and guns. But I specifically wanted something unassuming that I could wear all the time, with no one likely to suspect the hidden weapon capabilities.”

James heard the hesitancy when Q mentioned his _friend_. There was story there, but James wouldn’t press for it right then.

“They definitely worked well, and you looked amazing using them,” James complimented.

James added more soberly, a moment later, “I wanted to help you, you _know_ that right? Even then, I wanted to throw a chair at that mirror, smash it, and jump in there and fight alongside you.”

“I know, James. I read your file. I know you try your best to protect anyone you see as innocent. But I also saw it in your eyes when you looked at me when we were in the cell together. I could tell how much you were struggling to maintain your cover. I could _see_ that you wanted to help me.

“You…” Q’s voice cracked a bit as he continued, “just your being there and doing what you did… it gave me the strength and courage to do what I needed to do. You did exactly what was needed for your mission and saved countless lives. We both played our roles, we both survived. I don’t blame you for any of it. You know _that_ , right?”

James wanted to kiss Q again in that instant. But James would wait to push for more intimacy. He just nodded and smiled for now.

Q’s understanding and approval was more than James’ deserved, he thought. But he’d take it, greedy bastard that he was. He was too entranced to reject anything Q offered him. He felt the last weight left from that mission fall off his shoulders thanks to Q’s honest words, Q’s acceptance of James. Q had brought James back fully to himself after they went through hell together, after nothing else seemed capable of truly fixing the damage done inside James during the last year.

The sky chose that moment to remind James that he was back in London. Rain came down in fast chilly drops, sending the park visitors running for cover. The tree behind their bench did nothing to keep them dry.

“That seems to be our cue to leave,” James commented. “How did you get here? Not the tube, I hope.”

“No, my knee does make the tube rather difficult to manage these days. I had a driver bring me from HQ,” Q confirmed. “He’s waiting with the car just outside the park.”

“I’ll walk you there. I know you’re perfectly capable on your own,” James hastened to add, to avoid insulting Q’s pride. “But I’m more than happy to help.”

James stood up and offered his arm to Q, the younger man hesitating only a moment before taking it. James bore Q’s weight easily and watched closely as he got up, taking care to not put too much pressure on his healing knee. Q held his cane loosely, choosing to lean on James more instead. A warm surge of satisfaction filled James at Q’s choice, and the trust he was showing James.

They moved slowly, carefully, and got thoroughly drenched. James was tempted to just pick up Q and walk quickly, to save them both from the wet chill. But James wouldn’t dare insult Q’s dignity like that in public without better reason.

By the time they got to the car, the rain had tapered off to a light drizzle. Getting further soaked no longer a pressing issue, James found he didn’t want to let go of Q. Q seemed to likewise hesitate to break their physical connection.

“Well, I really should get back to work,” Q stated with obvious regret. “You’ll…you’ll be reporting in soon, I hope? Of course take a few more days first, if you need to.

“But you’re…well, you’re welcome down in Q Branch whenever you want. Provided you respect the equipment and don’t make a nuisance of yourself.” Q said that last bit with a smile, as if he knew exactly how much trouble James was likely to get himself into hanging around all the high tech toys.

“Oh, I promise to always respect _your_ equipment,” James teased. “But what should I call you? Q? Theodore? Is Theodore your real name?”

“It is. Though I should probably start on the paperwork so I’m no longer legally missing, and get my cover at the weapons manufacturing company up to date. But Q is best for at work and official communications. As for…well…my _friends_ call me Teddy.”

Q looked away when he admitted that, swallowing slightly in clear embarrassment. James was completely charmed and couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone more adorable.

“Alright then. It’s good to meet you, again, _Teddy_.”

It might just have been the chill in the air and his wet clothes, but James saw Q give a distinct little shiver when that name left James’ lips.

“See you soon, James.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so no one is put off…despite how this chapter starts, my promise that the torture segment of this fic is over still stands. There is more comfort coming rather than hurt.

The second time Q got kidnapped, James was just returning from a mission.

It’d been his first mission since coming back from the hell of that deep cover operation. They’d deemed him recovered enough and sent him off again. Thankfully it was a fairly simple, short mission, especially compared to what he’d been through over the past year.

Before that, James had first spent a few weeks in London, acclimating himself with the new MI6. He’d spent as much time as he could in Q Branch, equal parts pestering and flirting with Q, which was delightful. But the majority of his time was spent elsewhere in HQ, which was most annoying. Paperwork, Med evaluations, Psych evaluations, skills testing, meetings where James was quickly bored out of his mind, all took far too much of his time.

The new M, Mallory, seemed competent. But he lacked the ferocity and cold efficiency of the old M that James had so respected. Mallory was more of a diplomat. Which James supposed was a necessity, after everything that had gone down. But every time James interacted with the man, he couldn’t help missing the old M.

Q was quite different from Major Boothroyd, of course. But whereas comparing the two ‘M’s chafed James’ mind, Theodore was like a balm for all that ailed James. The old Q was a good man, clever and quick witted, and never one to take James’ shit. Theodore was a genuine genius, with a quick sharp tongue, and completely able to take down James a peg or two with his disapproving stare alone. Both Qs loved to tinker and had soft spots for cleverly concealed weapons, no matter how much Theodore scoffed at the suggestion of making a new exploding pen.

But whereas the old Major was content to design and supply gadgets to the agents, rarely getting directly involved in missions unless there was a specific need, the new Q had steered his branch into a much more active role. So James got the unique experience of having Q in his ear for the majority of his new mission. It was both enjoyable and frustrating. 

It was enjoyable because James liked Q’s voice. James liked _Q_. He liked to flirt with him. He liked to tease him. Q seemed amicable enough to James’ innuendos and James was planning on picking up the pace and outright asking him out soon.

It was frustrating because James was used to working alone. He was used to making his own plans without having to consult with anyone. He was used to following his instincts without anyone questioning him as to _why._ Honestly, if it had been anyone besides Theodore in his ear, James would have thrown away the bloody comms after the first hour of ‘helpful’ suggestions and directions.

After a few days of it, though, James had to admit to himself that that would have been a mistake. Some of the suggestions _were_ actually quite helpful. The directions when he got lost in a massive skyscraper in Hong Kong were invaluable and saved him from having to jump out a window. They saved him from getting shot a few times, too.

It was a learning process for them both, James realized as the mission wound down. James needed to learn how to accept instructions while in the field, and Q needed to learn when to leave James alone to work. Thankfully, Q seemed to realize the same thing. Q eased up on the needless directions and excessive questioning, trusting James to be able to figure things out on his own, and instead only suggested courses when it was truly important or James asked.

They were developing a good rhythm together, built on mutual trust and understanding of each other’s abilities and strengths. So even though there were some harrowing moments towards the end of the mission, James was quite pleased when it was over. He’d gotten the information they needed, killed a few targets, and not gotten hurt himself. Q seemed satisfied with the results, as well.

It was early afternoon in London when James returned from the mission. He made his way out of the airport and to the car he’d left in long term parking, with the ease of actions he’d repeated millions of times before. For the first time in a long time, though, James didn’t feel the need to delay returning to HQ after a mission. James knew exactly why, of course; Q.

Q; who had assured the mission went as smoothly as possible. Q; who should be at HQ waiting for him. Q; who seemed amicable to moving their relationship toward more than merely friendship, but who James needed to outright _ask_ that of. The downtime after their first successful mission together seemed a fine occasion to do just that.

The mission had wrapped up late last night, London time. Q had sounded exhausted, James reminded himself. It was possible, though unlikely, Q was taking the day off to recover. If he was, maybe James could convince him to let James swing by his place instead of HQ. James hadn’t yet seen Q’s home, and he was admittedly curious.

James fished his earpiece out of his jacket pocket while he was paused in traffic. Q would answer, even if he was at home rather than work. The younger man had assured James of that before the mission. James put it in his ear and clicked it on, a sign that he wanted Q’s attention.

“Hello, 007, is there something I can help you with?” The voice that came to his ear a few moments later wasn’t Q’s, but James recognized it as R, Q’s second in command.

“Nothing pressing,” James assured her. “I was just hoping to speak with Q, go over a few things post-mission. Could you put him on, please?”

“Q isn’t available right now, I’m afraid. Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?”

There was nothing wrong with the words, but something in her tone sent James’ instincts on edge. He was suddenly uncomfortably reminded of the last time someone was _‘unavailable’_ when he asked for them; M, and she’d been dead. James really didn’t like when people tried to hide things from him or delay giving him information he wanted. He reminded himself that there was no point in clashing with R, who Q relied on.

“No, thank you, I’m really looking for Q,” James made his voice polite and charming, despite his growing irritation. “Is he at home, taking a day, then? Or is he busy?”

The few seconds of silence on the line that followed was very telling. James felt cold, hard dread settle into the pit of his stomach.

“He’s unavail…”

“ _R_ ,” James cut her off, forcing his words to remain as polite as possible, but knowing the hard edge of a killer ready to strike had entered his tone. “Please tell me what’s happened and where Q is, or every piece of equipment I’m ever given from Q Branch from now on will be returned in small, burnt pieces.”

Agonizing seconds passed while James drove in silence, gripping the wheel of his car with white knuckles.

“He’s…there’s been…he’s _fine_ ,” R answered, in a not at all reassuring voice before again falling silent.

Keenly aware that R was well within her rights to hang up on him, James struggled to keep his temper in check. Q was his superior and James was in no official position to be demanding to know his whereabouts. If Q Branch hadn’t become so familiar with James over the last few weeks, R likely would have ended the call already.

At first, the boffins had been terrified of the highly trained assassin hanging around their territory so often. But after prolonged exposure, and watching how completely _not_ intimidated by him that Q was, they’d gotten used to James. They’d accepted he was friendly with Q, and so they’d accepted him being where he didn’t strictly belong.

“He’s really fine, 007,” R tried again. “Or at least, that’s what they’re telling me. He was getting a late start, after wrapping up the mission with you last night. He was on his way here, with his usual driver and car. But there was…well…he hasn’t made it here yet. There was some sort of attempted kidnapped, but I’m told he’s safe and…”

 _“Where?!”_ James hissed, all politeness gone from his voice and replaced by the cold tone of a man that killed for a living. “Where _is_ he?!”

“He’s still on the scene where it happened. It’s…” R gave him the location.

James had swerved the car around and was speeding in that direction before she’d finished speaking.

\--------------------------

The police had the stretch of road blocked, but his MI6 ID got him past that easily enough. Once the press of vehicles and people got too dense for him to drive any closer, he parked his car and continued on foot. James walked past flashing police lights, smashed cars with clear bullet holes, and dozens of people milling about. There were a few bodies on the ground covered by white sheets, some stained with red blotches, awaiting the coroner. James refused to consider the possibility one of those was Q. R had said Q was fine, and she hadn’t been knowingly lying, James knew that much.

His hands itched to draw his Walther from his shoulder holster, but he resisted the urge. All signs pointed to the scene no longer being active, the danger having been contained by then and the scene currently being processed, as R had said. But James wouldn’t be able to relax until he saw Q in person and confirmed with his own eyes that he wasn’t hurt.

James ran into an MI6 agent that he vaguely recognized as he surveyed the scene. The agent was green enough and in enough awe of James’ rank that he didn’t even hesitate to fill James in on what had happened.

Q had been on his way in to HQ, roughly an hour ago, and being driven by the usual agent in the company car. A car containing hostiles had cut them off, then another car had slammed into the side of Q’s car, with a third car boxing them in on the other side. There were nine hostiles in total, three in each car.

Both Q and his driver had exchanged gunfire with the hostiles, killing two and wounding another. Q’s driver was then shot and wounded. He was expected to survive, and had been taken to the hospital since, but was out of commission for the remainder of the fight.

Q had taken out another hostile before he ran out of ammunition and was rushed while trying to reload. Q had used his cane to fight, knocking out two more hostiles that way.

Luckily, Q’s driver had hit the distress signal in the car before he’d been incapacitated. Ms. Moneypenny had been on the road at the same time, with an MI6 issue motorcycle. She was informed of the situation and arrived on scene in time to shoot and kill the remaining three hostiles.

Q was uninjured beyond bumps and bruises, the agent said, and had avoided even getting in to any of the hostiles’ cars. As far as kidnapping attempts went, it was completely unsuccessful. The surviving hostiles were on their way to MI6 for questioning. James considered seeing if he could be a part of that questioning, later. MI6 had plenty of skilled interrogators for it, of course, but James was still interested. For now, confirming his Quartermaster’s safety was James’ top, and _only_ , priority. James waved away the green agent after he finished his report and pointed James in the direction of Q.

James’ respect for Eve racketed up a few notches after hearing her role in the events, but he wasn’t entirely surprised. She’d seemed far too clever and perceptive to be just a simple assistant to Mallory, as they’d claimed. She and Q were friends; James knew that much for certain. They’d bonded over being promoted during the whole Silva debacle, and consequently having to prove they deserved their positions rather than merely being given them because their coworkers had died.

James finally saw Q, and all other thoughts fell away. The boffin was sitting on the closed boot of a car, rubbing at what looked like blood on his cane with a handkerchief. His laptop bag sat on the boot next to him. James quickly scanned Q’s body with his eyes, finding no noticeable injuries, to his extreme relief. But James didn’t slow his steps and continued quickly toward Q. The younger man noticed his approach a second later, raised his head, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“007, what are you doing here?”

“Are you alright?” James asked, ignoring Q’s question.

“Yes, I’m fine. Didn’t even need to use my stem-blades. Medical already checked me over. I’m just waiting for Eve to finish conferring with the police, then…”

“Your mouth is bleeding.” James scowled as he noticed.

“Is it?” Q frowned, brought his hand to his mouth, and confirmed there was indeed blood when his fingers came away with a slight coating of red. “Oh, yes, I bit my tongue when the car crashed into us. Nothing to be concerned about.”

James felt the last of his patience and self restraint drain away in the overwhelming sense of relief that Q was indeed safe and mostly unharmed. He couldn’t wait any longer. James surged forward, grabbed Q’s head, and brought their lips together. Q gasped out a startled, _“James!”,_ then fell silent and responded beautifully to the kiss.

Q’s lips were cold and James spent a second mentally berating whoever had decided it was best for Q to wait outside on a chilly car boot. But James quickly warmed those lips with his own. Q’s mouth was hot and the taste of blood and honey familiar to James. Their mouths seemed to fit perfectly together, and James could no longer imagine how he’d waited this long to kiss Q again.

Q set aside his cane and wrapped his arms around James’ waist, drawing James closer. James happily went, stepping closer to Q’s body, between Q’s spread legs while the younger man remained sitting on the car boot. They kept kissing, tongues and lips meeting and exploring each other, for a few more moments before pulling apart. They eyed each other, both smirking a little. 

“I do hope that someday you’ll manage to do that when my mouth _isn’t_ full of blood,” Q commented wryly.

“How about tonight?” James asked without hesitation. “Dinner with me?”

Surprise flashed across Q’s face, followed by a pleased smile.

“Yes, that…that is if I can get away before too late tonight, I’d certainly like to. It was already a late start, and now this all has just delayed it even more. There’s a decent amount of work that I need to…”

“That you need to let R and your other people handle,” Eve interjected, making Q startle in surprise.

James had noticed her approaching, but hadn’t bothered to turn in her direction until then. Now he did, and was far from happy as he realized what she’d noticed and he’d missed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Q scowled in her direction. “I’m perfectly capable of going into work.”

“Nope. Not happening. I already confirmed it with M, his _direct_ orders,” Eve stated flatly. “You are taking the rest of today, tomorrow, and the weekend off, Q. You’ve been taxing your knee lately, working too long, and you know it. After what you went through today, you _have_ to let your body rest! The amount of strain your knee went through from repeatedly firing a gun, with the recoil…and then using your cane to fight…you shouldn’t be walking or standing _at all_ for a few days!”

“You’re exaggerating.” Q scowled more. “It’s not that bad. Besides I can work sitting down, and...”

“Not good enough. Even if you did manage to stay in your seat, which is highly unlikely, work is stressful, and your body feels that tension even if you’re sitting still. You need to actually _rest_ and relax for a few days!”

Q just continued to scowl and refused to look directly at Eve.

“Teddy,” Eve said Q’s name with deceptive sweetness. “Look into my eyes and tell me honestly right now that your knee isn’t throbbing in pain this very second.”

James watched as Q’s stubborn resolve broke at that challenge. The boffin sighed deeply and slumped in his seat on the car.

“Fine!” Q huffed. “I’ll go home and rest for _four whole_ days! But it’s still a ridiculously long time for just a little pain.”

James took his own sigh of relief at that. He’d stayed out of it, hoping he wouldn’t have to say anything. But as soon as he’d realized the truth of what Eve was saying, there was absolutely no way James was going to let Q go in to work, either.

“It’s just _three and a half_ days,” Eve grinned widely. “I was going to go with you to make sure you behaved and stayed off that knee, since I know you don’t trust many people to be in your house. That was far from ideal, though, with the budget meeting I’m supposed to be helping M with. But thankfully, I just found a new volunteer to keep an eye on you that no one will miss at HQ for a few days.”

Eve grinned wider and looked straight at James. James blinked in surprise, but it certainly sounded like a perfect idea to him, so he smiled in easy agreement. Q, on the other hand, started sputtering and opened his mouth to apparently protest.

“Unless you’re going to break James’ heart and tell him you _don’t_ trust him enough to let him stay in your house and take care of you?” Eve asked with her wicked grin before Q could get a word out.

James drew his brows up, widened his eyes innocently, and gave Q his most pathetic pout. Q narrowed his eyes and scowled at James, but he only managed to hold it for a second before he burst out laughing at James’ expression.

 _“Fiiiiine!”_ Q relented with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Wonderful!” Eve nodded. “Remember, Q, three full days of rest and staying off that knee! The only exercises you’re allowed are the ones where you’re lying flat on your back! I’m sure James can help you with that!”

James' smirk at those words split his face with delight. Q’s face turned a lovely shade of pink and he avoided eye contact.

“I hope you know how much I hate you, Eve,” Q grumbled.

“No you don’t.” Eve snickered and leaned in to plant an exaggerated kiss on Q’s cheek. “Well I’m off. Have a lovely weekend, you two!”

Once Eve was gone, Q sighed again, and then looked up at James shyly through his eyelashes.

“I’m sorry Eve is so pushy. This is a big inconvenience for you. I’m sure you had better plans for the weekend than sitting around my boring house.”

“Oh, you mean sitting around my boring hotel room and trying to convince myself it’s worth going flat hunting? Q, I am more than happy to do this! It’s win-win for me! I get to nose around your house, and I get to spend time with my favorite boffin. There’s nothing I would rather be doing this weekend, honestly.”

That drew a small smile out of Q, so James counted it as a win.

“Now, you have two choices,” James stated, leaning closer to Q so he would see James’ serious face. “You can either let me carry you to my car, or you can sit here and wait while I make a scene until everyone clears out of the way so I can drive my car to you.”

“Those are both _horrible_ options full of embarrassment.” Q’s face blanched in clear distaste.

“I know,” James agreed. “But the only other alternative was my just picking you up without warning. The only reason I’m not is that you might start kicking and hurt your knee more.”

Q inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths. He reopened his eyes with a determined expression on his face.

“Fine,” Q said with a little sigh of resignation.

Q picked up his cane, but made no move to get up. He opened his arms in invitation for James to pick him up. It took a considerable amount of willpower for James to not grin widely in response. A small pleased smile still wormed its way onto James’ face.

James took Q’s laptop bag and slung it over his shoulder first, then put his arms around Q. It took them a moment to get comfortable with James holding Q bridal style. James was worried about holding Q under his knees and putting pressure where he was hurt, so he gripped Q’s thighs instead. Q nearly beamed James in the head with his cane. But eventually they balanced out.

“Alright?” James asked to confirm.

“Yes, just, walk quickly, please,” Q whispered in clear embarrassment.

James listened, walking as quickly as he could while being sure he was in no danger of dropping or jostling Q. A few people shot them curious looks that Q caught. Then Q seemed to decide to hide from the embarrassment by closing his eyes and burying his nose against James’ neck. James was _definitely_ alright with that.


	7. Chapter 7

Once James got Q situated in the car, the drive was quiet and uneventful, Q only speaking to give James directions. James didn’t feel the need to try and make conversation. Q had just gone through a traumatic event. Even if it wasn’t nearly as horrible as his previous kidnapping, it still had to have brought back bad memories for him.

When they reached Q’s home, James was surprised to see it was a proper house with a fenced in garden, space between its neighbors, and ample street parking out front. James got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door.

“If you don’t mind leaving your cane and bag for the moment, this will be easier,” James offered. “I’ll come right back out and get them. I’ll have to come back to get my own luggage from the car anyway, since I’m staying awhile.”

Q hesitated for a brief moment and James saw a vulnerable look flash in his eyes. Both the cane and the laptop made Q feel secure, and James could see he didn’t want to be without them. James understood that without those two items Q would be at a distinctly greater disadvantage. But it still hurt a little that Q didn’t completely trust James to protect him.

But after that hesitation, Q merely nodded and reached out to be lifted up by James. As expected, without having to balance the added items it was much easier. Q wasn’t as light as he looked, he was decently muscled for how thin he was, but James could still have carried double Q’s weight without much effort.

Once they made it up the steps and onto the porch, there was a key code lock at the door. James angled them so Q could access it without letting Q go. Q punched in a long string of numbers that he didn’t try to hide from James, and James automatically memorized them by habit. That sequence apparently opened the security panel, which revealed a palm print reader. Q pressed his palm against it, and the box opened further to reveal another key pad. Q typed in an even longer series of numbers, and again James memorized them without consciously deciding to. Finally, James heard the distinct unlocking of the door.

“That gives two minutes to get inside, close the door, and punch in another code on the inside, or MI6 will be alerted,” Q informed James calmly.

James nodded, carrying Q inside and kicking the door closed behind them, and then turned around to angle Q to access the key pad inside his house. Q put in more numbers that James also committed to memory.

The distinct meowing of cats greeted them, making Q softly smile. James turned them around to greet Q’s pets.

“Hello, darlings. Yes, I’m home early today. This is James. He promises to not step on you, even while he’s carrying me, and even if you attack his ankles.”

James huffed out a laugh at that, and carefully maneuvered them inside, keeping an eye on the two little furry beasts eying him suspiciously from the floor.

“What are their names?”

“The slimmer orange one is Spot, and the fluffy white one is Duchess.”

“I don’t know much about cats, but the orange one doesn’t appear to have a spot on him.”

“It’s a _Star Trek_ reference.”

“Ah, I see,” James wished he knew enough about that show to appreciate the reference. But the white one he could give a shot at, at least. “Duchess from _Aristocats_?”

“Yes.” Q blinked up at James in surprise. “You don’t know sci-fi shows, but you know Disney cartoons?”

“Early on in my field agent career, I had guard duty of a mother and her five kids. We were holed up in a hotel room for a full month. We went through _all_ the Disney movies. _Multiple_ times.”

“I bet _that_ was fun.” Q laughed.

“Definitely one of my more harrowing adventures, certainly.”

Q laughed a little more at that, warming James’ heart with the sound.

James took in their surrounds with a quick glance. He picked the closest, most comfortable looking spot to offer to set Q down on.

“The couch in front of the telly ok for now?” James asked.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

James gently set Q down on the couch, making sure he seemed comfortable. Q took one of the throw pillow and put it under his bad knee, then laid back and sighed in relief. Spot was up on Q’s lap within seconds, though Duchess chose to instead perch on the back of the couch and continue to glare at James.

“I’ll go get our things from the car now. Is there a way to bypass the need for a palm scan so I can get back in?”

“You don’t need to. Your palm print is already in there with approved access.”

 _“What?!”_ James hissed in shock. “How many people’s prints do you have in there?”

“You, me, and Eve,” Q answered, turning to look James in the eyes. “Despite my own insecurities regarding things like my laptop and cane, I _do_ trust you, James. Eve knew exactly what she was doing earlier. You’re the only one besides her that I’d allow free access to my home.”

What James had initially seen as a security flaw, imagining all MI6 agents had access, he quickly realized was instead a sincere compliment from Q. James swallowed hard, suddenly choked up with emotion. He didn’t know what he’d done to earn this privilege from Q, but he damn well knew enough to appreciate its significance. He also felt a bit sheepish that his reaction to Q’s concern about his cane and bag was so transparent.

“Do you have all the number codes down, or do you need me to repeat them?” Q was apparently also aware of, and unbothered by, James’ automatic memorization habit.

“I have them.”

“Alright, see you in a few minutes then. And don’t worry; I’m not moving a centimeter for quite awhile.” Q smiled at James, then turned his attention to the purring cat in his lap.

James made himself head back to the door before he did something like leaning down and kissing Q. They had all weekend, James reminded himself. Plenty of time for that later. For now, one thing at a time.

\--------------------------------

After bringing in their things, James tried to make Q as comfortable and relaxed as possible. So far, he was getting mixed results.

He got Q a few mild pain and anti-inflammatory pills from his cabinet, after confirming that Q didn’t want anything stronger.

He made Q tea, per Q’s directions, with a generous spoonful of honey. Which might explain why Q had tasted of honey both times James kissed him.

He brought Q a cup of ice cubes, to help Q’s bitten tongue. Q sucked on a few agreeably, while James tried and failed to not find the sight arousing. He thought he was relatively successful at hiding it, however. Q gave no sign of noticing.

James noted the lack of much food in the kitchen, and planned to order delivery for dinner, then run to a shop for supplies sometime before breakfast.

James had looked around the main floor of the house curiously. It gave off a cluttered-comfortable feel. There were amble stuffed bookshelves with an eclectic mix of classics, sci-fi, engineering, coding, and language books.

There were at least two laptops, not counting the familiar one Q took into work, and five desktop computers with large monitors. The most impressive looking desktop computer involved a clear case that made all the inner parts visible, with rainbow lighting of those inners, as well as a rainbow-lit keyboard and mouse.

There were framed posters on the walls. James recognized the Enterprise from _Star Trek_ , a Dalek from _Doctor Who_ , and the DeLorean from _Back to the Future_ ; seeming to showcase both Q’s sci-fi and mechanical engineering interests. There were also a few paintings, mostly Impressionist works with a few Abstracts. There were several cat trees and cat beds placed throughout, as well as an automatic cat feeder. 

There were bits and bobs of all manner of projects strewn about, from what looked like robotic work, to parts of a sniper rifle, to schematics for a submergible car. There were at least two pairs of eyeglasses, besides the pair Q currently wore. Likely all equipped with stem-blades.

There were five guns and three knives hidden throughout the main floor of the house at strategic places. James approved.

There were only three displayed personal photos, James noticed.

The oldest photo was of a boy that looked around ten, serious and standing at attention, surrounded by three nuns. The boy was clearly Theodore, already wearing glasses and with adorable messy hair, in a Catholic school uniform.

“I never knew my parents,” Q offered, as he noticed James’ interest. “I was left on the steps of a convent as a baby, with a short note listing my name and that my mother couldn’t possibly care for me. By the time I was old enough to search for her with my computer skills, she was already dead of a drug overdose. I never found out who my father was. So I was raised by the sisters of that convent. They saved me from the foster care system, which I’m grateful for. They cared about me, in their way. I had a happy, if strict, childhood. Until I realized I was a gay at fourteen, I rejected the religion that rejected my identity, and they disowned me.”

James inhaled sharply at the pure cruelty of that. Q had said it with calm detachment, but James knew it must have hurt immensely.

“And yet you keep a photo of them out, after that?” James asked.

“It’s not all bad memories, as I said,” Q explained. “Yes, I hated them for awhile. I hated that they would never be able to see _me_ anymore, just my orientation. I can never go back there or contact them expecting anything but more rejection. But in time I moved on. They did the best they could, within their system of beliefs. They never raised a hand to me, or tried to convert me forcefully, they just told me to leave if I wasn’t willing to change.

“Thankfully my unusual level of intelligence had already been noticed by that time. I got a full scholarship and early entry into Oxford, with free boarding. I got several degrees and stayed there until MI6 recruited me.”

The story was sparse. There were obviously ample details left out. But if Q didn’t feel like talking about it further at the moment, James would leave it alone. James understood the desire to not focus on the past.

James moved on to the next photo. It looked fairly recent and was of Q and Eve at a pub, smiling and with beers in hand.

“Eve insisted we go out to celebrate our promotions, after things had quieted down a bit at work, after Silva, before…I was taken,” Q clarified.

James nodded, moving on to the third photo. It was of what looked like an Asian family; father, mother, with three young children.

“My friend, Hyun-jun, with his wife and children. He’s the one that introduced me to taekwondo and helped me design my stem-blades,” Q explained. “He’s NIS, from South Korea, and he’s settled back there now with his family. He was stationed in London for several years and we worked together on a few joint missions.”

There was a fondness and sadness to Q’s tone as he talked about this ‘friend’. James suspected Q’s feelings toward this photo were just as complex as his feelings to the nuns from his childhood, but more raw and recent. James wanted to ask for more details, but again held back. This was Q’s personal life. It was Q’s choice, not James’, how much Q shared with him.

So after that, James had chosen to sit in a chair near where Q was laid out on the couch, and let the conversation wan. Q had some nature program on the telly, but was paying more attention to petting Spot than watching it. His mind seemed to soon be far away, his expression scowling.

James focused his eyes on the telly, but his attention was discretely still on Q. So he noticed every time that Q glanced up at him, seemed about to say something, then looked back down and stayed silent. It was not a comfortable silence. Q’s expression and body language were unhappy and tense.

After about an hour of this, James couldn’t take it anymore.

“Q, if…if this isn’t going to work, you can just say so. I’m not going to get upset,” James said with a carefully neutral tone. “You need to rest and relax. If you can’t ask me for whatever you need, this isn’t going to work. If you can’t be comfortable with me here, this is pointless. We can call Eve and get her to come here instead.”

It hurt to say that. It hurt to admit failure at something he desperately wanted. And James desperately wanted to be the one to take care of Q. But James’ feelings and pride were inconsequential compared to Q getting what he needed to heal.

“No! No, that’s not it! I don’t want you to leave!” Q said it quickly enough and with enough conviction that James believed him. “I don’t want Eve instead, I just…”

Q sighed and scowled again. James kept his carefully neutral mask in place, only raising his eyebrows in question.

“You are just so…so _you_!” Q sputtered, “And _I’m_ so…”

“I’m so _me_? Handsome, and smart, and dashing?” James smirked playfully.

Q snorted.

“Strong, and confident, and unshakable,” Q countered, giving James a surprised jolt at the compliments.

“Whereas I’m…I feel weak,” Q admitted. “Helpless, and pathetic, and weak. I know how I look to most people. I know how they judge me. I’ve had to work _so hard_ to be respected, especially by field agents. I just feel like seeing me like this spoils all that.”

James inhaled sharply at that. He forced his neutral mask to drop, and pinned Q with an expression showing all the deep fondness and genuine _respect_ that he had for Q.

“Q…. _Teddy_ , do you think I’ve forgotten for one _second_ how your knee got like that in the first place? I was _there_ , remember? The first time I saw you, I underestimated you. But ever since that moment you have been proving me wrong. You endured things that would have destroyed most people. And you not only endured, you _fought_ back, you saved yourself. You are one of the strongest, most impressive people I’ve ever met.

“Giving your body what it needs to heal is not weakness. Needing help is not weakness. I may disagree with you sometimes, but I will _never_ lose respect for you. You’ve earned my respect a thousand times over already.”

Q blinked rapidly at that, looked away from James, and licked his lips. When he looked back up, he gave James a sweet, grateful smile. Then a determined look crossed his face.

“I want a shower. I want to change clothes. I _do not_ want your help in the shower. I’m not comfortable with you seeing me without clothes, or getting dressed, at this point.”

“Alright,” James agreed easily enough. “Tell me where the clothes you want are, and I’ll get them and put them in the washroom for you. I’ll carry you to the washroom, then leave you to take care of yourself there. You’ll leave the door open a crack and yell for me if you have _any_ trouble.”

Q’s mouth fell open in clear surprise, then he closed it and swallowed several times. He shook his head, then looked at James ruefully.

“I spent the last hour trying to figure out how to convince you to do that. Apparently all for nothing.”

“Yes,” James agreed without malice. “Maybe next time you can trust me not to invade your privacy without reason.”

“Ok. Ok, yes. I’m sorry. I should have…I just…you have something of a reputation, you know.”

“I know. But you’re not a honeypot mission, Teddy. You’re not someone I’m trying to _seduce_ into letting me into your shower or your bed. If you ever invite me into your bed, I only want it if it’s something _you_ want, completely and without reservation.”

James could have made it fun for Q, he thought. He could have showered with Q and shown Q how enjoyable it could be for both of them. He could have soothed whatever insecurities Q had about his body by worshiping every centimeter with his lips and tongue.

But as wonderful as that could have been, this was better, this was _more important._ This would help Q trust James. This would help Q confirm that James respected him. This was what Q wanted. So this was what they would do.

\----------------------------------

“James?” Q called from the doorway of the washroom.

James smiled to himself, pleased Q had called for him instead of walking further on his own. James had heard the water turn off in the shower. He’d heard the rustling movements of Q drying off and getting dressed. He’d heard the door open wider. He’d refused to turn in that direction and been waiting to see what Q would do.

Trust went both ways, James thought. Q trusted James to not barge into his shower uncalled for. And James trusted Q to call for him when he was done.

James turned toward Q, only to freeze at the sight. James had known how appealing he found Q, but he found himself quite unprepared for just how absolutely adorable Q was in that moment.

His skin was slightly pinked from the hot shower; steam still seeped out of the room behind him, framing him and giving him an ethereal appearance. His glasses were a bit fogged, but his green eyes behind them looked much more relaxed than before. His hair was damp, dark, and delightful looking. He wore the garments James had chosen from the drawer of sleep clothes; blue pajama bottoms with a Tardis on starry sky print, and a soft black t-shirt with the quote, _‘Biting is excellent. It’s like kissing – only there is a winner.’_ printed on it. The shirt had immediately brought James’ mind back to the few precious pleasant moments from that hell of a mission; when he and Teddy had kissed aggressively.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you knew _Doctor Who_ well enough to match this shirt with these pajama bottoms,” Q mentioned, noticing James was staring.

“I don’t,” James admitted with an easy shrug. “I just liked the quote.”

“I should show you the episode sometime, then,” Q offered with a smile. “It’s one of the best, and you don’t have to be caught up on the current stuff to understand it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” James agreed.

James moved the few meters toward Q, who leaned his cane against the wall and opened his arms to be carried. James decided he would never get tired of the sight of Q welcoming James’ arms around him like that. Q felt amazingly soft and warm against James, after his shower.

James had only gone a few steps when Q whispered, “Don’t let go.” Making it an order rather than a question only slightly took off the sting. James would have to be shot in the head before he dropped Q. In fact, James suspected he would drop dead to the ground still gripping Q rather than drop the boffin. But then Q leaned up and kissed James, explaining the warning, and James forgave the offense instantly.

Q’s lips seemed softer after the shower, and certainly hotter than they’d been when they kissed outside at the crime scene. The same underlying taste of honey was still there, and James was getting fast addicted to it. After a few moments of gentle kissing, Q took James’ bottom lip between his teeth and tugged.

“I thought you said you wanted kisses _without_ blood, for a change?” James chuckled; though the bite was far from rough enough to draw blood.

“I thought _you_ liked the quote,” Q countered.

“Planning on winning, are you?” James asked

“Always.” Q smirked widely, then brought their lips together again.

While they continued to kiss, James moved them toward the couch. He considered for a second, then decided to chance it. James kept Q in his arms, turned around and sat on the couch, ending up with a surprised boffin in his lap. Q raised an eyebrow at him in question, but didn’t seem uncomfortable with the arrangement at all.

“You said not to let go,” James explained, with his arms still firmly holding Q.

Q let out a short laugh, then resumed kissing James. James got his hands in Q’s damp hair, loving the feel of the soft strands between his fingers. They continued that way for some time, kissing and lightly petting each other, until James felt the need to clarify something.

“So, the not wanting me to see you naked…it wasn’t from a lack of interest in pursuing this, then?” James asked; the _this_ meaning the obvious attraction between them.

“No, of course not.” Q frowned a little. “I did accept your invitation to dinner, even though going out for that is clearly postponed for now. I do definitely want this, James. I want _you_. I just…having the first time you see me naked being because you’re helping me because of my knee…it makes it…it would have been…I would have been aroused, to say it right out. I can’t pretend you don’t affect me. I can’t pretend I wouldn’t have _liked_ it. It’s just…not how I want it to happen. It sends a certain signal, and I…

“I’m not explaining this well.” Q sighed in frustration.

“It is becoming a bit more confusing for me,” James admitted. “I’d thought it likely because you’re hesitant about me, or because you’re insecure about your body.”

“Oh, no,” Q corrected. “I’m comfortable enough with my body. I may be thin, but I’ve worked hard to make myself fit. I’ve lost a little muscle tone thanks to the knee limiting how much I can do. But still, no. I know you can easily enough imagine what I look like naked. You know quite well the scars I have recently acquired. And you seem to be attracted to me perfectly well. So no, it’s not that I’m uncomfortable with my body.”

“Ok then. You might have to be a bit more specific with the explanation.”

“I…I don’t want to put you off.” Q sighed. “But I guess I’ve gotten myself into this and we need to have this conversation now.

“I need…I need a relationship to be _clearly defined_. So in pursuing a relationship myself, I try to make sure the signals I’m giving out are clear. Casual sex in the shower, as a first sexual encounter, points to wanting a casual relationship. Everything we’ve done so far, from what happened during that mission, to you kissing me earlier today when you were relieved I was safe, all points toward intense, but casual sex. That’s not what I want from you.

“I’m not saying we _couldn’t_ have a causal relationship. I’m not entirely against the idea of friends with benefits. But it’s not my preference. I’d like an actual serious romantic relationship with you.

“But at the same time I was trying to avoid coming right out and saying that, and having to see the wide-eyed, startled look you’ve got on your face right now. And that is not a request for you to put your neutral mask on, please. I just…I just need you to tell me what you want from me, James.

“If you just want us to be friends, I’m open to that and I’m sure we can have some fantastic sex. But I just need to know that’s all you’re looking for, so I can adjust my emotional expectations accordingly.”

James had no idea what to do with his face after that. He struggled against the instinct to put his neutral mask on, as he always did when he wasn’t sure of the appropriate expression to wear. His mind was spinning a little, his emotions a mess. He knew what he wanted from Q, he _did_. And it certainly wasn’t casual. But a small, commitment phobic part of himself was screaming at the need to define it so soon.

Q squirmed in James’ lap, as if to move off of him. James tightened his hold on the boffin automatically. The idea of Q pulling back spurred James on to tell the truth.

“I want you. I don’t want to let you go,” James whispered. “It would never just be casual sex for me, with you. I feel too strongly for you already for that. But I can’t…I can’t promise you…I can’t promise you I would be a good romantic partner. I’m away on missions all the time. I have to fuck people for those missions, as often as not. When I come back from bad missions I’m a mess and no good company for _any_ one. That isn’t going to change.”

“I _know_ that, James. I’d never ask you to change that. That’s not what I…” Q growled in clear frustration.

“Hyun-jun and I were more than just friends,” Q declared with a strong set to his jaw, as if bracing himself to tell this story. “In what _way_ more than friends would depend on which of us you asked. I thought we were dating. We went out together, to dinners, movies, concerts, that kind of thing. We trained together; he introduced me to a local taekwondo dojang, Korean dojo, that I still use today. We always stayed the night together after sex and had breakfast together the next morning. We got each other gifts. We…all the signs of a solid romantic relationship were there, I thought.

“Hyun-jun thought differently. For _two years_ , I thought we were in a serious, long term relationship. It was my mistake. My misunderstanding. We’d never talked about our long term plans or defined our relationship. I’d just _assumed_.

“Then he got reassigned back to South Korea. He _left me_ like it was nothing. He…he had a fiancé in South Korea that he’d never mentioned. They’d been childhood friends. He’d _always_ intended to marry her. He didn’t understand why I was upset. He thought it was obvious what we were doing was never going to last. He thought it was obvious he’d never be able to be in a real committed relationship with _another man_. He thought it was obvious we were just fooling around; just passing the time until we settled down, married women and had a _real_ family.”

“Christ, Teddy! I would _never_ do that to you!” James hissed, fighting the urge to want to kill this Hyun-jun.

“It was a misunderstanding. He hadn’t intended to hurt me. A lot of it was cultural, I think. South Korea is a lot less progressive about gay relationships. So I don’t think he ever _let_ himself consider that he could have a real romantic relationship with a man, even if he wanted to.

“I just…if I’d understood from the beginning, I might have still enjoyed our time together. I might have accepted that all the relationship was ever going to be was friends with benefits. But it blindsided me. And so… it took me a long time to get over it. But I’m back to a place that I can see him as a friend. We still exchange emails every so often. He sends me photos of his kids. I’d never have learned taekwondo without him. I never would have designed my stem-blades.”

“I guess I’ll spare his life for that, if nothing else. Your stem-blades are amazing.”

James was only half joking. He still wanted to kill Hyun-jun. But those blades had saved Q’s life, and they both knew it.

“I have no idea how long term we can be, Teddy. We’re still getting to know each other. My life expectancy isn’t exactly long term, either,” James admitted. “But I _can_ promise you I am serious about having a romantic relationship with you, not just casual sex or friends with benefits. I can promise you I won’t sleep with anyone else outside of missions. I’m not going to run off and leave you for some woman, or anyone else. If I’m with you, I’m _with_ you. If I make it to retirement some day, by some miracle, I could imagine happily spending it with you.

“We’ve only known each other a short time, so I can’t promise that will never change. But I can promise I _will tell you_ if it does. I would never spring that on you without warning.”

“That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.” Q sighed, relaxed in James’ lap, and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m sorry for springing this all on you so soon.”

“We all have our issues. Better to get them out in the open early on. If you can put up with me being possessive, over-protective, and wanting to literally kill anyone that wrongs you, I can deal with you needing me to actually _talk_ about relationship status.”

“I’d never dream of dating a double-o without you doling out a few genuine death threats on my behalf.” Q snorted. “And possessive and over-protective can be appealing, as long as you respect me, as well. Which you have proven quite nicely today.”

James initiated the kiss that time, and Q happily seemed to melt into it. They explored each other’s mouths until Q’s stomach demanded something else by growling loudly. Q blushed brightly as James smiled.

“Time to order dinner?” James offered.

“Seems that way. Pizza is horribly unoriginal, but it’s what I’m in for mood for. Alright with you?” Q asked.

“Perfectly.”

What was truly perfect, however, was the smile Q gave James then. It was wide, and genuine, full of fondness, trust, and happiness.

James mind skipped back to the first smile Q had ever given him, in that hellish room, with blood on his lips and pain in his eyes, but still already a hint of fondness. James remembered how much it’d hurt to respond to that smile with his unaffected mask on his expression, and with lies and betrayal.

Now, James made an effort to drop all masks from his face. He wanted Q to see how he really felt. James wanted to return Q’s trust, with trust of his own. James wanted to show Q that he felt just as much fondness back toward him; just as much happiness at getting to spend time with him. It was too soon to call it love; to _say_ it out loud. But it _felt_ like love, in James’ heart. Maybe it felt like love in Q’s heart, too. It looked like love in Q’s eyes. James hoped it did in James’ eyes, too, as they stared at each other for an intense moment.

Maybe all that couldn’t be shown in one expression, in one meeting of their eyes. But that was ok. However long it took, whatever he needed to do to prove it, James would show Q how much he meant to him and how good they could be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut incoming next chapter! Hope you’ll look forward to it, and hope you enjoyed the talking and the feels here!


	8. Chapter 8

Pizza was had. Q directed James to get the cats’ food and water sorted for the night. James took a quick shower and changed into his sleep clothes. Then they spent the rest of the evening comfortably in front of the telly together on the couch.

They spent more time kissing and lightly petting each other than watching the telly, of course. But the telly was good distraction whenever James worried it was getting a bit too heated between them and pulled back. Not that James _wanted_ to pull back, of course. But after Q’s confession about his last lover, it seemed prudent to take it slow. James didn’t want to give Q any reason to think this was just about sex for him. James could wait however long Q needed him to. Not that it would be easy. But Q was worth it.

Q, it was soon proven, had ideas of his own, however. Q had narrowed his eyes each time that James pulled away, but said nothing in protest. James had taken that as agreement that waiting was best. James should have, perhaps, used his words more. But he felt they’d already had their big emotional talk of the day. More than that was pushing it, in his opinion.

Q yawned and stretched on the couch. It was early and Q had shown no signs of being tired before that obvious display, so James was suspicious it was an exaggeration. But he wasn’t going to question it if Q wanted to get some sleep.

“Bed?” Q suggested with his arms out, clearly asking to be carried.

There was no way James could resist that sight, not that he had any reason to. So he picked Q up and headed toward the bedroom. It was up a short flight of stairs to the second floor of the house. James didn’t like the idea of Q tackling those stairs on his own. But maybe he’d slept on the couch when his knee was worse. James hoped so.

James got Q comfortably into bed, with his glasses safely nearby on the nightstand, and a pillow under his recovering knee. He was about to pull the covers up over him, when Q pulled him down for more kisses. Leaning over Q, with Q in bed, made kissing the boffin even more erotic. It would be so easy to get into bed with him. So easy to lie down on top of him, careful to avoid his knee, and press their bodies together. So easy to take Q apart and finally show him how much pleasure James could give him.

James was tempted, so _so_ tempted. Q seemed to want it; to be eager for it. But James had promised himself, for Q, that he would go slow. James had promised himself he wouldn’t be the one to press Q for more; that it was up to Q to tell James when he was ready.

So James pulled back, standing up just out of each. Q’s needy whimper went straight to James’ cock. They just stared at each other; lust obvious in the heated gaze between them. It took several moments for James to get his breathing under control enough to speak.

“Do you need anything else?” James managed to get out, finally; his voice gruff.

“I need you to get in bed with me.” Q narrowed his eyes, looking ready to win any argument James gave in response.

James inhaled sharply and fought against his urge to obey immediately. This might be a test, he warned himself. Q might need him to prove he could sleep next to Q without making it about sex. As much as James wanted to prove that, he knew it wasn’t possible with how aroused he currently was, and how much he wanted Q.

“Teddy, if we share a bed, I can’t promise I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself,” James admitted apologetically. “Even if I do manage that, I can’t promise you won’t wake up to me rubbing against you in my sleep.”

Q looked disappointed. James mentally cursed his own lack of self restraint when it came to sex. He should be able to cuddle in bed with Q, give him the comfort he needed, without getting an erection. It made James consider taking another shower; a cold one, or one where he took himself in hand and got the edge off. Would that be enough to sleep with Q safely? James didn’t think so, honestly.

“I’ve dreamt about you before,” James confessed, trying to explain. “Dreamt about having sex with you. There’s…there’s no way I can promise you those dreams won’t be back tonight. Actually having you next to me in bed is not going to make that _less_ likely, and then you’d wake up with my hard cock pressed against your arse.”

Q opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. He gave James a wry, encouraging smile before he spoke.

“And you think hearing that makes me _not_ want you in my bed? You think it does something _besides_ make me incredibly aroused?” Q snorted in disbelief. “I’ve dreamt about you, too, James. Hell, even before we _met_ I was attracted to you. Attracted to the stories of the infamous 007, and the photo in your file with your blue eyes seeming to bore into me through my computer screen. I’ve only gotten more attracted to you the more I’ve gotten to know you.”

James frowned, confusion warring with the strong twist of arousal those words caused.

“I thought…I thought you wanted a traditional romantic relationship.” James tried to understand. “That doesn’t usually include sleeping together before we’ve had our first proper date.”

“Oh, James, that is not what I meant at all! That’s incredibly _sweet_ , but not what I meant at all!” Q’s eyes looked at him fondly, belaying any frustration James felt at this latest misunderstanding.

Q continued, “I said I needed to understand the relationship parameters before I was comfortable with us moving toward sex. I _didn’t_ say I needed us to go on three proper dates first, or any such nonsense. As long as I _know_ that we’re both in agreement about the relationship status, which I _do_ now, I don’t give a damn about _traditional_. I _want_ you, James. And I’m fairly certain you want me. I see absolutely no reason to wait any longer.”

As James absorbed those words and all they meant for the night, a pleased smirk started forming on his face. Well, alright then. James could definitely work with this. This was much better than he’d dared hope for a few minutes ago. James felt his own insecurities begin to slip away. Q wasn’t asking James to prove anything. Q was trusting what James had said before about what he wanted out of the relationship.

James stood there for a few more seconds without moving, shifting gears from denying his own lust to being allowed to, _encouraged_ to, indulge in it.

“Come _here_ , James,” Q commanded with clear desire in his voice, his intention clear.

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be? You tempting me with a treat and calling me to you like a faithful dog?” James made sure the mischievous way he meant those words came through in his tone and expression. He was not offended in the least, but intrigued. His flirtatious side was coming back to the forefront.

“Well you _did_ mention wanting to hump me.” Q snickered. “Still, I’m not sure you’d respond to commands in bed much better than in the field. But I’ll certainly try if you like….James, _sit_!”

Q patted the bed next to him, urging James to come sit. James chuckled and shook his head in amusement. He could play this game. This could be fun foreplay. So James obeyed, the bed dipping slightly as he sat down next to Q.

“Stay,” Q added firmly.

James raised his eyebrows and made no move to go anywhere. He pursed his lips, sat still and waited for the next command. Q did not disappoint him.

“Suck,” Q said with an absolutely wicked twinkle in his eyes and a wave of his hand toward his crotch.

James grinned widely and gazed unabashedly at Q’s erect cock tenting his pajama pants. James had noted Q’s arousal while they’d kissed, but he had graciously ignored it, pushing it as far out of his mind as possible as he thought he wasn’t allowed to notice. Now this was as good as permission to stare. And it was certainly a sight worth staring at. And _drooling_ at, if they were going to continue the dog metaphor. James licked his lips, exaggerating the movement to make sure it was unmistakable.

“Where’d the importance of communication go now, Teddy?” James teased. “If you want a blow job, just _ask_.”

“Well, it _would_ help me relax. You _are_ supposed to be helping me relax, James.” A dark pink blush was highlighting Q’s cheeks, but he stared at James with unabashed desire. The contrast was nearly as appealing as his erection itself.

“That I am,” James agreed, with what he knew was a sinful smirk on his lips.

If Q wanted a blow job, James wasn’t about to disappoint him. In fact, James planned to do such a _spectacular_ job that Q would never dream of wanting _any_ one else’s lips on his cock ever again.

With one slight caveat, James remembered as he again looked down Q’s body.

“I expect you to keep that leg as still as you can,” James cautioned, tapping a finger against Q’s thigh above his recovering knee. “Squirm as much as you want otherwise, but as soon as you endanger that knee we’re done for the night.”

Q groaned and lay back against his pillows, no doubt aware how challenging that was going to be. He knew better than to argue with James on that point, though.

“Uhm…maybe…get some more pillows to put around it to help? The two sides to bracket it in, I mean. There are more pillows in the closet,” Q suggested with a finger point toward said closet.

James smiled to hear Q take the warning seriously, as well as how his speech was already slightly mangled with lust. James quickly found the pillows and did as Q had asked. His knee as safe as it could be, James returned his attention to Q’s erection.

James locked eyes with Q, confirming Q’s gaze was full of lust and no uncertainty. After that final verification that Q still very much wanted this, James wasted no more time and pulled Q’s pajama bottoms down slightly. Q’s erection popped eagerly out, flushed red with the tip already beaded with precome. James had known Q wasn’t wearing anything under his pajamas, but seeing it still made James inhale sharply. James' own erection throbbed in response.

James took Q’s cock in hand, wrapping his hand around the base and pressing against the balls gently. He then rubbed his thumb ever so slightly against the vein running up the length. Q let out a very gratifying groan. James bent down, getting his mouth closer, and blew out a light breath onto the head. Q inhaled sharply.

“James, if you take too long trying to _impress_ me, I am going to come on your face before you even get me in your mouth!” Q growled.

“No, you won’t,” James assured him, tightening his hold on the base of Q’s cock to help him wait, earning another groan from Q.

James licked his tongue across the head of Q’s cock, dipping the tip of his tongue into the slit. He licked lightly back and forth, loving the salty taste that was intimately Q.

“Oh, _fuck me_ , James!”

“Later, love. I’m enjoying my treat right now.”

James took the head of Q’s cock into his mouth and started lightly sucking. He looked up at Q, loving the sight of how much this was affecting the younger man. Q was panting. His eyes were open wide, the pupils blown with lust as he watched James work his cock. His hands were gripping the sheets under him tightly.

James wanted to take his time, pull out all his tricks, and totally blow Q’s mind along with his cock. But he saw the boffin was already struggling to keep himself still. As much as James wanted to impress Q, he would never risk Q’s health for it. There would be time enough for that later, James told himself. Later, when Q’s knee hadn’t endured a day of such strain beforehand, and Q could thrash around as much as he wanted in response. James would enjoy holding him down while Q shivered and clenched every muscle in his body. Just not tonight, for the sake of his knee.

Still, there was a way to make this both quick _and_ impressive, James decided. So he mentally checked his gag reflex, moved his hand out of the way, opened wide, and proceeded to slide his mouth all the way down Q’s cock, deep throating him in one smooth movement.

“Holy shit bloody fucking… _James_!!”

James just hummed contentedly around Q’s cock at the exclamation. He was proud he’d drawn that reaction out of Q, of course. Internally he preened at the response. But he only had a few seconds to enjoy it, and then Q was coming down his throat. So James got to enjoy that instead and happily swallowed everything Q gave him.

James pulled back a bit, but kept the head of Q’s cock firmly in his mouth. He greedily sucked out the last few drops Q had to offer, feeling Q’s cock twitch and then begin to soften in his mouth. James reluctantly let Q’s cock drop out of his mouth, watching as Q panted and enjoyed his post orgasmic bliss. Once Q locked eyes with James, James made sure to grin widely and lick his lips.

“Good lord, James,” Q whispered.

“Relaxed yet, Teddy?” James smirked.

James moved to lie down next to Q, wrapping his arms around the boffin’s slim waist. He briefly considered pulling Q’s pajamas back up, but figured Q was perfectly capable of doing that himself if he wanted to. James wasn’t going to deny himself the sight of Q’s lovely spent cock for no good reason.

“Mhhm, yes, very relaxed. Good job, _good boy_ , James,” Q mumbled, patting James’ head.

James looked up into Q’s eyes, seeing the returning mischief there as Q regained coherency. James smiled in appreciation of the sight.

“If you would be kind enough to direct your cock up here,” Q pointed to his own mouth, “I’d be quite happy to return the favor. I’d get it myself, but some bossy wanker was very concerned about me keeping my leg still.”

James’ cock twitched against Q’s hip at the idea, and James huffed out a laugh.

“I don’t know, Teddy, I…as delightful as that sounds, I’m not sure my legs could handle the position of staying safely kneeling around your head while you sucked me. It’s been a long day and it _is_ our first time together. I’m not unaffected by that,” James admitted.

“Again with your assumptions! What have I done to make you think I _don’t_ want you sitting on my face and to be suffocated by your thighs?!” Q demanded.

James gasped and had to actually grab the base of his own cock to stop himself from coming from those words alone.

“That is…something we will _definitely_ be doing then, once this bossy wanker isn’t worried about hurting your knee by making you move it involuntarily,” James promised. “For now, I’m already damn close. I’d be quite content with your hands on me.”

Q’s eyes softened at that, and he moved to reach inside James’ pajamas to grip his cock. James helped by pulling his own pajamas down and out of the way.

“If I’m very good, and stay off my knee the entire weekend, do you think you could put aside your worry enough to properly fuck me before we have to go back to work?” Q asked as he started to stroke James’ cock. “And _by that_ I mean your cock pounding my arse until we both come.”

James gasped from both the words and the feel of Q’s clever fingers around his length. “I…that… _that_ may be able to be arranged.”

Q’s happy wicked grin lit his entire face in response. James would have grinned back, but he was too busy gasping and moaning as he came into Q’s hand. James savored the orgasm, the first he’d gotten to enjoy thanks to Q, made all the more sweet thanks to the wait.

Q took his hand away from James’ cock then. Any disappointment James felt at the loss was quickly shoved from his mind as Q brought his hand to his mouth. He licked James’ come off his fingers like it was the honey he favored in his tea. James’ cock gave a little spent twitch at the sight.

As soon as Q moved his hand out of his mouth, James kissed him. Both their releases were fresh enough that their tastes mingled in their mouths. Soon though, James felt the pull of sleep drawing him in. It _had_ been a long day.

James was considering just shucking off his pajamas and seeing if Q would be ok doing the same. Sleeping skin against skin was always James’ personal preference. But Q was already pulling his own pajamas back up and hiding his lovely cock.

James remembered belatedly that he still hadn’t seen Q naked yet. He was absolutely certain he would love every centimeter of Q’s bare skin, and he hoped Q knew that. But they were both wonderfully warm and relaxed at the moment. No point in doing something that risked returning nerves and tension. He found he didn’t care for the idea of even a quick trip into the bathroom to clean up. So James grabbed a few tissues from the nightstand and wiped himself off, then pulled up his own pajamas.

James pulled up the blankets around them, and then snuggled closer to Q. He fell asleep faster than he had in ages, feeling more content and at peace than he could ever remember being.

\----------------------------------

James woke up to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair. He forced himself not to tense and give away he was awake, but his mind raced for a few seconds. How had he been so foolish as to fall deeply asleep with a mark?! That was _never_ safe! He only slept lightly, for a few hours, regardless of how tired he was, when in someone else’s bed. He’d made sure to train himself hard to assure that. Even the most seemingly harmless marks could prove dangerous if James wasn’t alert, and ready at all times to…then he remembered where he was and who he was with.

Q; _Teddy_ ; trust; _safety_.

James inhaled deeply, smelling Q and the bed they’d shared, and sagged in relief.

“Good morning, James.”

And oh, James loved that voice, especially when it sounded so warm and fond, and said his name like that.

“Morning, Teddy.”

James opened his eyes and looked into gorgeous green ones. He saw the warmth and fondness he’d heard there, but something else he did _not_ like.

“You’re in pain,” James stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, well, not that badly, but yes.” Q sighed. “My knee feels worse this morning. Yesterday caught up with it, as does happen. I just need my pills, a hot shower, and to take it easy today. I’ll be fine.”

James nodded, hearing the truth in the statement. But he still resolved to make absolutely sure Q followed the guideline he’d just set.

“I’ll get your pills and some water. Wait here.”

Q nodded as James got out of bed and went to retrieve the items, and then quickly returned. Q swallowed the pills and drank some water while James watched.

“Did you sleep alright, or did your knee keep you awake?” James asked.

“It did wake me up,” Q admitted with a grimace. “But I got a solid seven hours first, so that’s not bad at all. I may nap later in front of the telly. But for now I’m too awake to go back to sleep.”

“You could have woken me up as soon as you were awake.”

“I _was_ , just…slowly.” Q shrugged. “I was only awake for maybe five minutes before you.”

James smiled and nodded, realizing the truth of that. Q knew well enough that James wouldn’t be able to sleep long with Q petting his hair. He was too constantly on guard for that. But it was certainly a more pleasant way to wake up than loud words or a shoved shoulder. Even if James’ own paranoia had still spoiled it a bit for himself. It had still been nice once he’d remembered where he was.

“I had hoped to get up first and go to the shops for groceries before you were awake, actually. But I slept better than I have in a long time, being with you,” James mentioned it because he thought it would do Q good to hear.

He was rewarded with Q smiling at him, his pain momentarily forgotten, and that made the admission more than worth it.

“I usually just have toast and marmalade for breakfast. And tea, of course,” Q added. “We also have leftover pizza.”

James made a disgruntled face at the idea of leftover pizza for breakfast. Q just laughed.

“Well we’ll make do with that. It’s better than nothing,” James conceded. “But after I get you settled, I am going out for groceries and we’ll have a proper lunch.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Q agreed. “But first…help me to…that is, please _join me_ in the shower, James.”

Q was looking away and blushing, no doubt remembering his demands for the exact opposite just yesterday. But James wasn’t about to give him a difficult time about it. He understood why Q had wanted that distance, as well as why it was no longer needed. James was more than happy to be invited to help Q in the shower.

“I’d be happy to,” James voiced his thoughts to assure Q. Then he considered the best way to do it, taking into account Q’s knee felt worse than yesterday. “Taking our clothes off here first, then carrying you directly into the shower, would probably be easiest and safest for your knee. If you’re comfortable enough with that.”

“Yes, that makes sense. And there’s a bathroom right here, attached to my bedroom, which I’m sure you noticed. So we don’t have far to go, rather than using the one downstairs. I…” Q sighed, visibly stopping himself from babbling.

“I’m not ashamed of how I look naked,” Q stated flatly with steel behind his voice. “You, more than anyone, know exactly what to expect. But it’s still not the way I would have preferred you to first see me without my clothes; out of necessity rather than desire.”

“It can still be _both_ , Teddy,” James corrected gently. “Yes, my needing to help you because of your knee isn’t exactly sexy. It may be a bit awkward. But I am still _damn well_ looking forward to seeing you naked. And once we’re wet and I’m soaping you up, I fully expect my cock to be hard and aching for you. If you feel similarly, I am _completely_ capable of supporting you while you lean on me and I take us both in hand. You _will_ exit that shower relaxed and sated, as well as clean, if you let me take care of you.”

“Alright then, James,” Q agreed with a smile, lust behind his eyes rather than nerves now. “I will put myself in your very capable hands.”

“I had hoped you would.”

\-------------------------------------

It didn’t go _quite_ as smoothly as James had hoped. Seeing Q’s scars sent James into a rage he hadn’t at all expected. There were dozens of them; little lines left on Q’s chest, stomach, and back, where the blades had cut deep enough and not been treated fast enough. They didn’t make Q unattractive, far from it. But James had watched while those bastards cut Q up. Seeing every little line left on Q brought back how much James despised those men, and had despised _himself_ for not being able to stop it.

“They’re _dead_ , James,” Q reminded him. “I killed them, and you took care of the rest. We _won_. They’re dead and we’re alive. The past is over. Here and now is what is important. And here and now I need, and _want_ , your help in the shower.”

James nodded, banishing the thoughts from his mind. He marveled at how Q had read him so well to know exactly what he needed to hear. James might not deserve Q, after everything James had done. But Q _wanted_ him. Q had chosen _him_ to be there with him. So James would do right by him, respect his choice, and be there for him _now_ , and forever after as long as he was allowed to.

He’d failed Q once. He never would again, he told himself. He’d die first. He’d throw away every mission first. Q was his priority from then on. James was loyal to his Quartermaster, first and last. James was _Theodore’s_. If that made MI6 decide they were better off with James retiring, then so be it. He’d find some other way to help Teddy, whether he worked for MI6 or not.

James didn’t believe it would come to that. James wasn’t so foolish as to actually lay it all out like that, even to Q. But James had made his choice. James made his choice the moment he saw Theodore again, limping up to him at that park, miraculously alive. It’d just taken James this long to realize it.

“I don’t mind you staring, James. But I’m getting cold sitting here naked.” Q broke into James’ thoughts. “I was promised a hot shower and a hotter handjob.”

James smirked at those words, as Q no doubt knew he would. If nothing else, James’ issues had apparently made Q push past his own and into taking the lead. They made an amazing team. This was just further proving that.

\-----------------------------------------

James kept his promise, and enjoyed every second of it once they were in the shower together. James soaped Q up and rinsed him off, loving every centimeter of skin he got to touch. He was tempted to linger on Q’s lovely arse, but he didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish because of Q’s knee. Instead, he washed Q’s hair, which was a delight. Then James quickly cleaned himself.

When Q’s knee was better healed, they could shower together more equally, with Q washing James in turn. But for now, James didn’t mind this in the least.

They were both hard and fully erect by then, as expected. James directed Q to face him, to put his arms around his shoulders, and to lean into him. James kept one hand on Q’s hip, to keep him steady, and then took both of their cocks together in his other hand. James’ hand, plus the close press of their bodies, made quick work of it. But this wasn’t the time or place to draw it out. It was still wonderful to come together, and to kiss Q as they did so, under the still warm spray of the water.

James got out of the shower and toweled them both off, not risking picking Q up while either of them was still wet and slippery. The whole while, Q smiled sweetly at him and James smiled back.

James realized he was ravenous as he carried Q back into his bedroom to get dressed. They’d worked up quite the appetite together. Q was likely even more hungry, with the added energy his body had to be burning to heal his knee. Tea and marmalade toast didn’t sound like it was going to cut it at all.

James supposed he’d have to stomach leftover pizza for breakfast, after all. _The things_ he did for Q, James thought to himself ruefully. James’ mood was much improved, regardless of how much he grumbled over the pizza.

\-----------------------------------

The weekend continued peacefully from there, for the most part. James went out for groceries and Q was none the worse for wear when he got back. James cooked for them for the remainder of the weekend, and preened every time Q complimented his skills, which was at every meal. James had learned to cook because it was a fine seduction skill to have. But he’d never enjoyed the result as much as he did when Q made sounds very similar to his orgasmic ones when he ate something James had prepared.

They watched telly together, and did a bit of reading when they tired of that. Spot and Duchess got used to James being around. Duchess even deemed James’ lap worthy of a lie-down once or twice. Q only pleaded to be allowed on his phone or laptop a few times a day, and only pouted a little when James denied him access.

Moneypenny called once to check in on them Friday evening. She assured them everything was going well taking care of the attempted kidnappers. James was both relieved it was being dealt with, and somewhat disappointed he couldn’t be the one dealing with them personally. But he got Q to himself instead, and that was more than worth missing out on a little bloodletting.

James and Q rarely spent more than an hour where they weren’t touching each other in some way, all weekend. The only limit was Q’s knee, which James refused to compromise on the care of. Therefore, many handjobs were exchanged, as well as a few blowjobs. They kissed and petted, and learned what each other liked. But most often they were content to just be in some sort of physical contact, whether that was Q leaning against James, holding hands with intertwined fingers, or just sitting close enough that their thighs touched.

Q’s knee improved day by day. Friday morning had been the worst of it. By Sunday afternoon it seemed returned to the condition it’d been in before the attempted kidnapping on Thursday. Neither James nor Q had forgotten the deal they’d made about that. Q had kept his end of it up and been good about staying off the knee all weekend. James was ready and willing to reward him for that. But he did have one condition first.

“Your next physical therapy appointment, I want to be there,” James stated. “I want to learn how to help you with the exercises so we can do them here together.”

Q could have argued. He could have pointed out that James might well be off on another mission before he had a chance to either learn the exercises or help Q with them at home. But Q said none of that.

“Alright,” Q agreed. “ _If_ , the next time you’re injured, you let me take care of you in return and make an effort to follow Medical’s instructions.”

“Deal.”

\---------------------------

And so, later that evening found James pounding into Q’s arse as he’d promised.

Q’s arse was amazing. Perfect pert cheeks and tight hot hole. James looked forward to having Q bent over properly, with that arse in the air where James could watch it as he rammed it and smacked it with his hand in time with his thrusts. But that would have to wait until Q’s knee was in better shape.

For now, Q was on his back. Q’s healing knee was safely propped on a pillow, while Q’s other leg was lifted up and on James’ shoulder, to spread Q’s legs wide and give James’ access to Q’s eager hole. This was still an amazing sight all on its own, of course. James loved watching Q’s expression every time James’ cock connected with Q’s prostate. He loved watching how Q’s balls bounced and hard cock slapped against Q’s stomach from the force of James’ thrusts; how it leaked precome onto Q’s belly; how well Q listened to James and didn’t touch himself, just desperately gripped the sheets under him and enjoyed the ride James was giving him.

James wasn’t using his full strength to ram Q, but he wasn’t holding all that much back either. Even James self control had its limits. Q begging and pleading for, _“…more, harder, faster, not going to break me, James please!!!”_ was decidedly close to shattering all of James’ self restraint.

When James felt his own orgasm building close to bursting, he slowed down and made it last a little longer. Then he unloaded into Q in what was the most satisfying release James had had in years. Q had insisted a condom wasn’t necessary, and so James relished the privilege of filling up Q’s hole with his hot come. As the most intense tremors of his orgasm lessened, James took Q’s cock in hand and tugged his lover to completion. He watched in approval as Q’s come came out in long white spurts to coat Q’s stomach.

“That’s lovely, Teddy, let it _all_ out for me. _Enjoy_ it! Feel me in you, you feel _so good_ around me. I’m filling you up so good, all full of my cock and my come like your hole deserves. _Never_ want to pull out of you.”

_“James! Fuck, James!!”_

James eased Q’s leg off his shoulder and onto the bed. He leaned down onto Q, pushing their sticky, panting bodies close together. He kissed Q and Q clung to him as he rode out the end of his orgasm. It was true; James wished he never had to move. He’d stay buried inside Q forever if he could, keep giving Q pleasure and taking his pleasure in turn, forever.

But reality wasn’t that perfect, sadly. James pulled out before anything started to dry and stick worse than it already was. No point in making this painful by waiting too long. Q still let out a bit of a strangled gasp as James pulled out. James checked Q’s hole, his knee, and then looked into his eyes. He was ok, James hadn’t hurt him, thank god. But he was properly post-orgasm incoherent. Just looking dazed and absolutely lovely.

James got a flannel from the washroom and cleaned them both up. Then he lay back down, flush against Q’s side, skin against skin. If James could just keep Q warm enough, he’d never let the boffin wear pajamas around the house again and just keep him nude constantly.

“That was _amazing_ , James.” Q seemed to have found his voice again.

“ _You_ were amazing, love. You _are_ amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the smut was enjoyed! One more chapter to go!


	9. Chapter 9

The third time Q got kidnapped, he and James had just gotten out of a concert.

James and Q had attended the London Symphony Orchestra’s concert featuring popular sci-fi and video game music. James hadn’t been certain he’d enjoy the performance. He wasn’t very familiar with most of the music. But Q had wanted to go, and James was perfectly happy to accompany him. It gave James an excuse to get Q into a nice suit, and for them to enjoy a lovely evening out together.

James had ended up having a wonderful time. Even if he couldn’t identify most of the music, it was still expertly played and with more impressive compositions than James had expected. Most importantly, Q was clearly happy the entire time.

It was roughly a year and a half since James and Q had started their romantic relationship. James couldn’t remember a time he’d been happier, or a person that had meant more to him than Q did now. Q had long since finished his physical therapy for his knee, and he rarely needed the cane anymore. So most days the cane remained at their house.

And it was _their_ house. After they’d gotten together it’d only taken three months of James putting off looking for a flat, and complaining about the inconvenience of the search, for Q to tell James to just officially move in with him. Which James had been secretly hoping for the entire time, of course.

Q had taken his cane with them to the concert, however. He knew with sitting still for the entire performance in a less than forgiving chair, that his knee would likely be stiff afterward. Of course James would be there to be leaned on, too. But the added security of having the cane was something both of them appreciated. It paid off that night.

As they excited the concert venue James was approached by a woman, apparently a staff member intent on selling him tickets for future performances, though she was unusually pushy for such an upscale venue. James tried to be polite. It had been a wonderful performance and James believed in supporting the arts. Q caught James’ eye and indicted with a nod that he was going ahead, to which James nodded back. He knew Q’s knee needed movement to relieve the stiffness, not standing still while listening to the woman’s sales pitch.

Once Q was out of sight, the woman got bolder. She starting trying to flirt with James and took hold of his arm. James tried not to instantly be disgusted by her bluntness and lack of shame. He knew seduction was a useful tool, whether for spy craft or ticket sales. But his patience was fast wearing thin. He was acting as uninterested as possible and straining politeness, but she seemed unwilling to take the clear hint.

James decided it was time to be more forceful. He dismissively told her he needed to catch up with _his boyfriend_ and moved through the venue doors, expecting her to leave him alone once he stepped outside. She didn’t. If anything, her grip on his arm became tighter. Alarm bells started going off in James’ head.

A second later, his instincts were proven correct, as a scream rang out from further down the street. It wasn’t Q’s voice that had screamed. But it was Q’s voice that yelled out, “Bond!” a moment later. Q wouldn’t call for him with his last name when they were off duty, unless there was serious trouble.

James started toward the sound of Q’s voice, to find the woman still refused to let go. So in less than a second, in James’ mind, she went from a possibly misguided bystander to a deliberate distraction to keep him from Q. James responded accordingly. He slipped out of her grip, twisting her arm around hard enough to break it. Then he stomped down on her ankle with enough force that the fragile bone snapped and she fell to the ground with a scream. She wouldn’t be running away any time soon, James noted with detached satisfaction.

James paused only long enough to determine she was unarmed, so not going to shoot him in the back; then he ran off, leaving her on the ground. James had absolutely no sympathy for anyone involved in threatening Q. She was lucky that had been a faster way to neutralize her than pulling his gun and shooting her. James wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot her dead, otherwise.

James pushed through the crowd of people milling on the street, not caring that he knocked into a few a bit harshly. They’d only suffer a few minor bruises; none had fallen down. Q might be in far worse condition, if James didn’t get to him in time. James drew his gun from his shoulder hostler as he ran, the sight of it inspiring anyone else in his path to jump out of the way.

Because of the noise of the crowd, James had heard nothing further to indicate what direction he should go in. But that hardly mattered. That one word from Q had been enough, with James’ training, so that he had already pinpointed where Q had been when he yelled. So James slowed his last few steps as he came to an alleyway. He cautiously peered around the corner, his gun raised and ready, taking in the scene in a quick glance.

Q was alive, that was the first and most important fact that James noted. Nothing of the extreme relief he felt showed on James’ face, of course. His cold killer’s mask was firmly on and guiding his actions. Q was facing James’ direction, standing near the opposite end of the ally in a defensive posture with his hands raised in front of him, and not hurt in any way that James could see from that distance. He still had his glasses on, and his expression was one of tense determination. There was a car behind him at the other end of the alley, with an open back door. No doubt where the would-be kidnappers had tried to shove Q. There was no movement in the car that James could see.

On the ground near Q was a man that appeared to be knocked out, blood pooling in the dirt around his head. Most likely he was the one that James had heard scream earlier. It looked like Q had broken the man’s jaw, likely with his cane. Unfortunately the cane was also on the ground, far out of Q’s reach. No doubt kicked away by one of his attackers.

There were two men with guns drawn facing Q. James didn’t hesitate. He shot one in the back of the head, and then did the same to the other, before either of them could turn around. Both of them fell to the ground, dead.

The threat in front of him neutralized, Q ran toward James. James noted with detached relief that Q was able to run quickly, without a noticeable limp. He also wisely didn’t pause to pick up his cane, ignoring it and hurrying to get behind James, as James cautiously walked forward with his gun ready to fire again. James would let himself check Q’s condition more once he was sure the danger was fully dealt with.

James heard the car door open on the other side of the car, so he was ready when another attacker leaned over the top of the car and opened fire. He got off a few shots before James neutralized him too, with another neat shot to the head, this one between the man’s eyes.

After that, James waited. He kept his gun out and ready. He felt Q’s presence close behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. He kept his eyes and gun trained on the car. After a few moments, he decided it was time to move forward.

“Hand on my shoulder, eyes behind us,” James ordered, knowing Q would understand.

James felt the firm press of Q’s hand to James’ left shoulder. He knew Q would watch James’ back and alert him to any danger from behind. James walked forward quickly, but cautiously, with his gun pointed in front of them. He felt Q’s hand remain on his shoulder as they moved together. Once James had walked a few steps past Q’s cane, James told Q to pick it up.

The cane wasn’t the only weapon available to Q, but it could be more quickly used than taking apart his glasses to access his stem-blades, or moving the would-be kidnapper’s bodies to get one of their guns. James listened to the sounds of movement behind him as Q obeyed and picked up the cane, but James kept his eyes forward. A second later, Q’s hand returned to press reassuringly against James’ shoulder.

James started forward again and they made their way to the car. James pointed his gun inside the vehicle, then peered down inside. Q’s hand remained a supportive pressure against his shoulder. No one was inside the car. James did a circuit around the car, with his gun still drawn and Q still following closely behind with his hand on James’ shoulder, watching the opposite direction.

After checking the area around the car and finding no sign of additional threats, James lowered his gun. He didn’t put it back in its holster yet, however. He waited a few more moments, eyes scanning their surroundings cautiously. Only after a few more beats with nothing new to see, did James allow himself to look over his shoulder at Q.

“Are you hurt?” James asked; to confirm.

“No. You?”

“Same,” James assured him. “Do you have your phone, or did they take it?”

“I have it. They didn’t get that far.”

“Call it in, then.”

Q moved his hand from James’ shoulder after giving one last supportive squeeze, and then fished out his phone and made the call.

James stayed alert, his killer instincts sharp and his gun drawn, until backup arrived fifteen minutes later. But no new threats presented themselves.

\-----------------------------

Later, once they were safe back home, James admitted to himself how satisfying that had been. Of course he would rather it have not happened at all. He hated Q ever being in danger. But this time James had _been there_. This time, James had killed the bastards personally and in a timely fashion.

Well, he’d left two alive for questioning; the woman that’d been positioned as a distraction, and the man whose jaw Q had broken with his cane. Just the right amount for MI6 to question and deal with whatever had caused this threat. Both Q and James were unhurt, verified by Medical. If Q _had_ to go through attempted kidnappings, this one had gone about as smoothly and safely as possible. That didn’t mean James was happy about it, but it did mean he could more easily joke about it afterward.

“When I retire, I’m becoming your full time bodyguard,” James informed Q as he put away the leftovers of the takeaway they’d picked up on the way home. It’d been far too late for the dinner reservations they’d had, after MI6 finished cleanup. But one of their favorite Chinese restaurants had still been open, so they’d stopped there. They’d made quick work of the food once they’d gotten home, having built up an appetite dealing with the threat and follow-up afterward.

Q smiled in response around the fortune cookie he was munching on, as he always did when James referred to his retirement in terms of _when_ rather than _if_.

James still didn’t feel entirely confident that he’d live to see retirement. But he was getting there. He was accepting the possibility, slowly, with Q’s help. Whereas two years ago James would have said it was nothing but a pipe dream, hardly worth even thinking about. Now, with Q supporting him on missions via the comms, and with Q waiting for him at home to return, James was finding himself both more able and willing to make it safely through missions. Retirement was beginning to look appealing, rather than a slow death due to boredom, if he got to spend it with Q.

“You’re rather over qualified for a bodyguard position.” Q smirked. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford you.”

“Well, I might be willing to give you a discount.” James returned the smirk. “Under certain _conditions_.”

“Oh? And what might those conditions be?” Q asked with a sparkle in his eyes, showing James he knew exactly where this was going.

“Well…if I’m guarding a body like _that_ …” James made a point to run his eyes up and down every centimeter of Q with obvious desire. “Then being allowed certain _access_ to that body for a job well done _could_ be appealing.”

“Hmm…I suppose that might be arranged.” Q tapped his lips with a finger as he pretended to consider the proposal. “How about, let’s say….for every would-be kidnapper you guard my body from, I’ll grant you one-time _access_ to whichever part of my body you choose.”

James felt a sharp twist of arousal in his stomach at those words.

“And would I be allowed to do _whatever_ I want to that chosen body part of yours?” James asked.

“Of course.” Q grinned, looking every bit as aroused as James felt.

“So since I stopped _four_ would-be kidnappers today, generously not counting the one you dealt with, I’d be granted access to _four_ parts of your body tonight?”

“Yes, that is what I’m offering,” Q confirmed.

“So I could start out with fucking that lovely mouth of yours; that’s part one,” James offered. “But I’d stop before I came down your throat; that’d be too simple. I’d choose _your hair_ as part two. I’d rub my cock through those gorgeous curls, and then release all over your hair, drenching it in my come, smearing it through those thick soft locks like shampoo. I’d even let you shower afterward, because I’d never dare damage that head of hair.”

Q was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring; eyes open wide and staring at James with blown pupils. He didn’t seem adverse to the idea, to James’ relief. It’d been something James had dreamt of doing for a long time, to tell the truth. But James had kept hesitating to bring it up; worried Q might find the prospect _worse_ than unappealing. James never wanted to see Q look at him with genuine disgust in his eyes. But with this hypothetical situation they’d set up, just talking about it as a possibility that never needed to be become reality, it had seemed safe enough to bring up. Now James was being rewarded with seeing evidence that Q might very well enjoy the idea as much as James did.

“That’s only two, you’ve still got two left,” Q reminded him; goading him on to say more.

“Hmmm….there’s so much I want to do to your arse, that I think it’s only fair it counts as two,” James admitted. “Your cheeks are in dire need of a proper spanking. Oh, not a few slaps that turn them pink for a few hours. A real, _proper_ spanking. The kind that turns your pert cheeks nearly purple when I’m finished with them, and leaves your round arse red for _days_ afterward. The kind you won’t be able to forget _for a second_ for days afterward. You won’t be able to sit without wincing. Even as good as you are at hiding your reactions, you’ll have to take off work or everyone will know what a naughty boy you’ve been.”

Q was panting heaver, whispering, _“Holy shit, James!”_ almost too softly to be heard.

“And then, of course, your eager little hole needs properly stuffed. My cock is the only thing truly up to the challenge, of course. Your hole will never be satisfied with anything less. But I won’t give it what it wants right away. What’s the fun in that? I’ll poke it, and plug it, shove those lovely beads you like so much in and out, then ram it with a dildo for a bit. You’ll be begging for my cock long before I give it to you. But then I will, because your little hole deserves the best. And my cock deserves your hole.

“So there’s my four; your mouth, your hair, your arse cheeks, and your arse hole.” James smirked. “But did you notice what I didn’t mention? Your poor cock, Q. I won’t touch it. I don’t have any body parts left to claim. I’ll just leave it desperate, aching, hard and needy, while I play with your other parts. Will it be able to come untouched, do you think? Or will I have to take pity on it and give it a hand? Or let you tug yourself off? What do you think, Teddy?”

“I think we should _find out_ , don’t you, James?”

And so they did.

\---------------------------------

Turned out the protein in semen was quite good as hair conditioner, the internet claimed. James still made sure to shampoo it out a few minutes after he’d sprayed it in, just in case the internet was wrong.

Q absolutely loved bouncing on James’ cock while sitting in his lap, so much so that James barely had to thrust up to keep Q entertained. Turned out that a properly spanked arse only added to Q’s enthusiasm for that. Q keened every time his bright red arse connected with James’ thighs. Which was every bounce. He didn’t _quite_ come untouched, but it was a close thing. He rubbed himself off on James abs while he rode James. James certainly didn’t mind, and filled Q’s arse right up with his come in reward.

Q barely sat the entire next day, and stayed lovely nude for that time as well. His arse was so wonderfully sore that even soft pants brushing against it wasn’t exactly comfortable. So James got to watch and appreciate that red ass all day long, knowing he’d made it that way and that Q loved every second of it; both the spanking and the showing it off for James afterward. They didn’t have work to go to, and all the windows’ curtains were safely drawn, so there was no harm. Just _pleasure_.

Mutual pleasure and fun between two committed lovers that knew each other well. They knew how to tease, and they knew how to please. They trusted each other and they knew what they meant to each other. They knew what they were both willing and capable of doing for each other. Never again would one of them stand by while the other suffered. Anyone that tested that would find hell to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has reached the end! Thanks so much to everyone reading, kudos-ing, and commenting. Thanks for the warm welcome into this fandom! I have more fic ideas, and so hope to stay awhile and share them when I can! 
> 
> My tumblr is [@slimysuckers](http://slimysuckers.tumblr.com/)


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